


A Perfect Storm

by Jyllean



Series: Seal Upon My Heart [4]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 12:03:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 42,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jyllean/pseuds/Jyllean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Moonridge 2010.  This is the fourth story in the series - Nothing to Do But Wait, Phantom, and A Seal Upon My Heart.  Jim and Blair are content in their relationship, but unrelated forces converge to challenge the status quo.</p><p>My thanks to Bluewolf and Starwatcher for their beta efforts.  Anything else that's wrong is all mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Perfect Storm

A **"perfect storm"** \- an expression that describes an event where a rare combination of circumstances will aggravate a situation drastically.

 **January in the Office of the Mayor**

Richard Killen, current mayor of Cascade, checked his appearance in the large gilt mirror that was part of his office dÈcor. His wife, Elizabeth, said it added elegance. Whatever. The redecoration of his office had been her project after his election three years ago, and at least it had kept her busy. The results were not entirely to his tastes, and had also put a dent in his wallet, too, but at least he used the mirror. In furniture and wardrobe, he trusted his wife's opinion implicitly. He stepped back to get a better view. Elizabeth had come through again. This new Mantoni Uomo suit really did look great.

"Mayor, as we were saying."

Killen turned his attention back to his two closest advisors, Julie McGinn and Mark Kitsa. The perpetually rumpled Kitsa sat at the conference table, surrounded by a sea of handwritten notes. Julie, petite and impeccably dressed, was writing on a whiteboard, the summary of their efforts thus far.

Killen stared at the whiteboard. "This just isn't good enough. I don't need another run-of-the-mill issue for the campaign. I need a score, a real homerun. We have to generate a major accomplishment that I can hang my hat on. That's what's going to win the next election."

Mark Kitsa nodded, forcing his expression to appear serious and attentive. Killen could only mouth those words because he, Kitsa, had explained this reality several times in the last two weeks. How had he and Julie ever gotten this guy elected in the first place? He was a communications director, not a magician. Well, when in doubt, stick someone else with the problem. "What do you think, Julie?" he asked. McGinn, the mayor's chief of staff, would no doubt strangle him later for dumping on her. Luckily, Julie just blinked once and carried on.

"You're right, Rick. With the economy and the city budget under stress, it's difficult to launch a new initiative to bring us the sustained positive press we need." McGinn capped the whiteboard marker she'd been using. She made a show of studying the list already up. A pretty pitiful showing, even for a first term mayor, but then Killen was no brain trust. She was an experienced political operative, and knew the truth. He photographed well, had charm and a wealthy, politically well-connected father-in-law. The first time around, daddy-in-law had lined up the endorsements and an unbeatable amount of money. Good photo ops and family support wouldn't be enough the second time around. Just her luck to be stuck with Killen when the city needed a real leader of any stripe. "This will be a very tough election."

"Well, I pay the two of you to come up with ideas," Killen said irritably. "I want another term and I expect you to get it for me."

Kitsa risked a quick look at his colleague, who gave him the non-verbal 'go' signal. For lack of any other ideas, it was time to trot out their long shot. "Actually, boss, Julie and I have come up with an idea that might have promise. We could run it primarily out of this office, and we wouldn't need to go cap in hand to the council."

Killen turned his attention from the mirror to his aides. "Okay. I'm listening. Maybe this afternoon won't be a total waste of time."

They'd rehearsed this, the two of them. McGinn picked up the narrative. "We should make a serious bid for the new Homeland Security branch that's going to be sited in the northwest. The timeline works, and national security would be a winning issue for you."

"No way," Killen said adamantly. "I don't want to get tangled up in immigration. Let 'em go back to Mexico or wherever they came from."

McGinn shot Kitsa a warning look, bit her tongue, and reminded herself that idiocy didn't disqualify you for public office. They'd gotten him elected once before, after all. "Not immigration, Rick. Think foiling the terrorists, protecting the port. The Canadian border is right next door, for heaven's sake. We can promote it the same way we would a law enforcement issue, without any of the usual baggage. Pretty tough for another candidate to oppose you on something like that. We'd own the issue because we brought it out first."

"Even better, the decision will be made before the election," Kitsa chimed in. "It would be federal money, but we could take credit for the new jobs, the prestige, and the overall benefits to Cascade. It's the homerun you need."

"Interesting," Killen said, brightening up considerably. "Do we have a chance?" 

"Mark and I think we could make a very strong case. Our proximity to Canada and the port, for a start."

"Seattle has proximity and a port," Killen commented sourly. "Portland has a port. You could make a decent argument for Spokane, too."

McGinn smiled. "Do you remember the latest law enforcement statistics?" _No, of course you don't. You don't remember what you had for lunch._ "We have some of the highest solve rates in the state, and the Feds are eager to put their manpower where it will get the best results. Homeland is emphasizing liaisons with local authorities in the application process. With the right exposure, a poster child, if you will, we can get their attention. Promise them use of our personnel, sort of a lend lease arrangement. Structured that way, every time they make a headline, you get the credit. It could carry us for years."

Killen frowned. "But lending personnel would mean involving Chief Warren. What about him?" Killen asked. "In case you haven't noticed, the Chief of Police doesn't like me much, and he's very protective about his turf. Anything to do with lending his officers and he'll dropkick the whole idea."

"We think we can distract him with the promise of increased funding," Kitsa said. "The budget cuts hit the police department very hard. Right now, he'd be supportive of anything that benefitted his department and his people, as he refers to them. We can concentrate on that aspect, while keeping certain details within this office, so to speak."

"So we don't talk about the whole thing?" Killen said, finally cluing in.

"Exactly," McGill said. "If we take responsibility for the bid, we control the information. We can make it work. Ultimately, if we win the bid, even if Warren doesn't like the details, he'll be in no position to object. He'll have to swallow the whole project to get what he really wants."

Killen nodded slowly. "I like it. You have detailed plans?" Both aides nodded. "Then let's go with it. What do you need from me?"

Kitsa inwardly sighed in relief. They'd done it. Managing Killen's day-to-day schedule was Julie's job, and she was good at it. "We have some ideas for a rollout. Let us work up some talking points for you, and we can start the process right away."

&&&&&

Ken Neff, Northwest editor for the CascadeTimes, finished his reading. The gloomy weather of a Cascade winter always darkened his outlook, and reviewing the resident problem child's work didn't help one bit. He tossed his glasses on the desk. "You're right, Pat. His writing isn't strong, and there's no appreciable improvement. This just isn't what we hoped for when we hired him."

"God, I hate this," Pat Belling groaned. As City editor, this was primarily his problem. "I wanted you to tell me that I was misjudging the situation."

"Well, the writing is without question subpar." Neff took a long slow sip of his coffee. "He's clashed with everyone in the newsroom. And there was the drinking at lunch episode. How bad was the botched interview last week?"

"Bad enough that I'm still getting calls," Belling said grimly. "We could have been dealing with a sexual harassment lawsuit. Be the news in our own story." 

"So what do we do? Fire him, demote him, what?" Neff asked. "Pat, you've been an editor for a long time and I trust your instincts. This is your call, and I'll support you whatever we do. Our managing editor won't bat an eyelash, either."

Pat Belling was visibly distressed. "Crap, the guy moved all the way from the east coast. Even though he deserves it, I don't feel right about firing him after barely two months, even if it's justified. On the other hand, right now I don't trust him doing the job he was hired for."

"Let's do this," Neff suggested. "Put him on nights, writing routine copy. Tell him he has six months to prove himself. Can you stand treating him almost like an intern? Supervising him closely? It's a lot of extra work for you."

Belling sighed. "I feel better about that than just letting him go. At least we'd be giving him a chance to redeem himself."

"Seems fair to me," Neff said. "Look, if he blows the chance, then we've at least done our best. Call him in. I want to be here when you outline his options."

Belling nodded in agreement. He hit the intercom and spoke to his assistant. "Thanks for the coffee, Ken. Lisa, track down Ron Stephens and ask him to come to my office ASAP." 

>April 

"Yes, sir. Absolutely." Simon Banks paused, smiling at the two detectives seated on the opposite side of his desk. "I will definitely convey the message. I agree. It was excellent work." He hung up the phone with a flourish. "That was our illustrious Chief Warren. Ellison and Sandburg are officially the shining stars of the Cascade Police Department."

"I don't suppose that means he's buying the drinks," Jim said wryly. The sarcasm made it easier to swallow his bitterness. Despite his effort not to eavesdrop, Jim knew the only name mentioned was 'Ellison'. The inclusion of 'Sandburg' was a convenient fiction. The accolades hadn't included his partner, not in any size, shape or form. Inwardly, he stifled his irritation and thanked Simon, grateful for his discretion. Sandburg certainly didn't need this shit.

Unfortunately, Warren's voice tended to carry; Jim just hoped Sandburg was too tired to notice. His partner was staring off into space, looking bedraggled and drained. Smuggling cases, intermittent by nature, were notoriously difficult. Cracking this case had taken every ounce of cunning and energy they could muster. They'd been pulling what amounted to double shifts for over a month, without a single day off. Besides the usual investigative routines, they'd spent weeks undercover, picking up odd jobs at night on the dock, infiltrating the shadow world operating in Cascade's bustling port. Sandburg had frequently sacrificed his few meager hours of sleep while he did the work he was uniquely suited for - ferreting out information from unlikely sources, picking out patterns from cryptic messages, countless bills of lading and endless customs records. It was painstaking, tedious work, and that side of the investigation was Blair's burden. Jim had no expertise and no feel for it. Damn Warren and his delusions. Jim Ellison hadn't been out there working alone.

"No, no drinks, I'm afraid," Simon said, twirling his cigar. He looked every inch the happy man. He reached for his suit coat and motioned his detectives to follow. "He'll be tied up making statements to the press. I, on the other hand, am free. Let's go."

Sandburg started out of his half daze. "God, the paperwork. We can't. We haven't even finished all the arrest reports."

"He's right, sir," Jim groaned. "Come on, Chief. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish."

"Stay where you are, Detectives." Simon leaned back to the desk and punched the direct line to his secretary's desk. "Rhonda, who do we have available right now? Draben? Get him. I'll be right there." Simon bustled out of the office. Jim studied Blair again. He'd been especially quiet and detached since the chaos of the arrests. He really did look ready to fall asleep where he sat. 

Sensing Jim's gaze, Sandburg scrubbed his face with his hands and sat up. "Man, I'm getting a double espresso before I touch a keyboard. I'll trade you the booking reports if I can go to Forensics instead. At least then I can keep moving. It'll help me stay awake."

"How much sleep did you get last night? Or whenever it was that we last slept." Jim threw a quick glance toward the office door to make sure they were alone. He leaned close to Blair's ear and added softly, "Not to mention the last time we managed the same bed at the same time, with the energy to - enjoy."

Blair shrugged with a smile, sharing that mutual regret at the neglect of the recent change in their relationship. "You sound like a bereft honeymooner," he whispered. Then he frowned, trying to actually answer the question. "Yesterday morning? That's right, the wee hours of yesterday morning. I got as much sleep as you did."

"Wrong. I crashed on the couch when you were off meeting what's-his-name, with the fishing gear in his nose."

"Oh yeah. Tanner." Blair snorted. "Don't be so critical. Personal expression is important. He did give us a good tip. We found the right warehouse." 

"Tip or not, he still looks like he fell into a tackle box and had to fight his way out. Every time I see the guy, I want to tie a line to his toes and start trawling." 

Blair started to laugh, then lost it in a jaw-cracking yawn. Jim shook his head, and got a withering look in return. "You have no faith in me. My brain's awake where it counts. The all-nighter king, remember?"

"Cracking the books isn't the same as cracking heads." Jim was ready to pursue the exchange when the office door bounced open. Simon blew back in looking insufferably pleased. "I've reassigned the preliminary reports, at least the routine forms. You two can finish tomorrow, after you get some rest. As of now, you're officially off duty. Come on. Let's get out of here."

Jim moved to follow, but noticed Sandburg's slight hesitation before he pushed out of his chair. He wasn't moving right. Jim vaguely remembered a flying tackle and punch-filled wrestling match that had taken Gardner down hard during the first bust this morning. It had been important to hit the warehouses in sequence, and they hadn't taken a moment between the three different docks. Maybe Blair had been banged up early and had stiffened up as the day wound into evening. Jim felt a twinge of guilt. He hadn't noticed his partner might be struggling with more than fatigue. Apparently Warren wasn't the only one to overlook the obvious.

He caught Simon's eye, trying to telegraph his concerns, but Simon didn't catch on. Okay, so they needed a deflection. Jim pulled at his flannel shirt, soiled from the arrest. Sandburg looked even worse. His jeans were streaked with some kind of oily grime, his shirt sleeve half ripped away, with a worn orange t-shirt peeking through. "We've been on the go since four this morning. How about a rain check, sir?" Jim asked. "Maybe when we're a little more presentable?"

"Oh, no," Simon protested. He elbowed Jim gently in the ribs. "Not every day the boss offers to buy you a beer. How about that place on Sixth? I'll get us a table in the back and we can order something to eat. No one will care how you're dressed. Then the two of you can go home and crash." Sandburg was on his feet, and seemed willing. Jim figured it was better to go with the flow.

&&&&&

Simon was as good as his word. His choice was a sports bar near the station, frequented by a wide variety of patrons, not all of whom dressed in three piece suits. The proprietors were accommodating. Off-duty cops were a big part of their business. After a brief conversation with the staff, they had a comfortable, out-of-the-way booth in the back, just as Simon had promised. The beer was cold, and the food was great. They inhaled an order of potato skins and another one of buffalo wings. Simon insisted on another round and a meal, and again Jim chose not to argue. 

"I've only been here for lunch. Are the ribs any good, Simon?" Jim asked, scanning the menu.

"The best. Steaks are excellent, and all of the sandwiches."

Jim waited for the mini-lecture on saturated fat from Sandburg. It was part of their banter, as much a part of the routine as Jim's teasing about long hair and impromptu recitations from the encyclopedia. Blair remained silent, staring somberly at the menu. Jim filed it as another indication that something was up. His worry flared again, but it didn't seem the time to press questions about his partner's wellbeing. Blair would only be embarrassed. 

Sandburg placed the menu back on the table. "Smoked salmon salad sounds good."

"Come on, Sandburg," Simon moaned. "This is a celebration. Let yourself go. Forget the greenery and at least go for the Cascade Burger. I recommend adding the peppers and extra cheese."

"Okay, okay," Blair said. "I surrender. I'm too tired to argue. You guys pick for me, but I really want the salad. I'll be right back." He left the table, heading for the restrooms. Again, Jim noticed a slight hitch in his step. This time, so did Simon.

"Is he okay, Jim? I know the first arrest was rough before the backup came in, but you didn't say anything about an injury."

Jim shrugged. "He didn't say anything. I don't want to bug him right now. It's probably nothing a hot shower wouldn't cure." Simon stared at him, expecting something a little more definite. "Sir, he worked his ass off on this case," Jim said with a little heat. "He has a right to be feeling it." Still conscious of Warren's slight, he added, "He also has a right to have someone recognize what he's contributed."

"So you did hear that," Simon said, his good spirits evaporating for the moment. "I figured you had. I don't blame you for being irritated."

Jim colored slightly. "I apologize, sir. I didn't listen intentionally. I do make an effort not to."

"I know that. Warren has one volume when he's excited ñ loud. Even when he's on the phone, most everyone in the room hears, and they don't have to be ñ you know..." Simon picked at a napkin. "Does Sandburg know?"

"He wasn't paying attention at the time, so we can pretend he doesn't. That's only to let us feel better. I figure he's too sharp not to know. He just ignores the crap and works harder. It's seriously starting to piss me off."

Simon swirled the beer in his almost-empty glass. "For a young officer, he's doing an exceptional job."

"For any kind of officer, he's doing an exceptional job," Jim countered. "It's been over a year, nearly two that he's been official. How long does he have to put up with it? Or more to the point, why do we put up with it at all?"

"I need to make sure he gets some downtime," Simon said, neatly avoiding the real question. Time off wasn't the issue. Changing prevailing attitudes was, and apparently their commanding officer wasn't willing to take on the challenge just yet. Their waiter arrived with another beer for all, and they gave their orders. Simon's dark eyes sparkled with mischief as he added a few significant extras to Sandburg's dinner. 

Blair reappeared just as they were finishing. "What am I getting? You guys did order me a salad didn't you?"

Simon peered over his glasses and pushed the beer toward his detective. "Be happy with your microbrew. I'm sure there's a lettuce leaf on the plate somewhere." He took a sip of his own and smiled at Blair's discomfiture. "Remember, Sandburg, catsup is a vegetable."

The meal lived up to Simon's predictions. Jim smiled inwardly as every last fried, gooey morsel disappeared off Sandburg's plate. The conversation was easy, they had their choice of sports on the tube, and it was a great way to unwind. The waiter arrived to clear their plates. "Dessert, Gentlemen? Or some coffee? Can I bring a menu?"

"Let me handle this," Simon said, raising both hands. "Three Irish coffees, three chocolate cream pies."

"No way, man," Blair protested. "I'm stuffed, and more alcohol is the last thing I need. I'm falling asleep as it is." 

"Ignore him," Simon said to the waiter with a grin. "Bring it on, and I get the check. Not another word, Sandburg. You're a young man, and this is a celebration. You have plenty of saturated fats left to give."

The slices of pie arrived. After a slight hesitation, Blair picked up his fork and dug in. Jim and Simon kept up a lively conversation, but Blair was quiet, almost detached. He didn't seem to have any energy beyond eating. He stopped after a few bites and silently slid the rest onto Jim's plate. Jim watched him warily for a moment and decided to just eat the extra pie without comment.

Jim swallowed the last bite of pie with satisfaction. "Great food, Simon," he said appreciatively. "Thanks for asking us." He settled back, full and much more relaxed. The restaurant had filled with the dinner crowd, but the bustle wasn't annoying. 

At least it hadn't been annoying up to that point. 

Jim noticed a man through the doorway, sitting at the bar. The guy eyed their threesome several times, and seemed to recognize them. Both Simon and Jim had appeared on television enough for that to be a possibility. Jim hoped it was nothing, but the guy was pushing through the crowd, heading their way. "Incoming," he muttered. "Damn."

Their visitor was dressed in jeans and a green polo. He was slight, and not much taller than Sandburg. Jim caught a touch of New York in the accent as he spoke. "Good evening, Captain Banks, Detective Ellison. Ron Stephens, Cascade Times." The guy flashed a press pass. "Could I get a few comments on the smuggling case? Great work, by the way."

Jim glared, and then looked away. The guy was just doing his job, he reminded himself. Ignore him. Simon got paid to handle these annoyances.

"We're off duty, Stephens," Simon said briskly. "The department has already issued a statement. If you missed the briefing, check with your own news staff."

Stephens grabbed a chair and pulled it up to the end of their booth. "Of course they have the release. I'm not talking about the headline. It's not every day you get compliments from every state and federal agency right up to the Department of Homeland Security. This should rate more than a one-day splash in the Times." No one spoke. Their reception couldn't have been colder. "Come on, guys. A positive feature story never hurt anyone."

"Contact me tomorrow, through Major Crime," Simon said, looking pointedly at their uninvited guest. "This is not the time." 

The guy apparently chose to be oblivious. "Sure, sure, we can keep it short. Maybe you could give me a few quotes, just to pique the public's interest for a longer story. I'm sure you have all kinds of inside stories to tell. It will be a great feature." 

Stephens had a jittery manner that made Jim uncomfortable. He wanted the guy gone. "No one said there would be another story," Jim said darkly, giving up on his original strategy. "We're asking you to leave, politely. Take the hint."

Stephens made no move to leave. In fact, he pulled a notebook out of his back pants pocket. "Hey, I'm on your side. No bait and switch. Favorable all the way. Just a quick reaction to the big arrest. Maybe an anecdote of two."

Blair snapped out of his silence. He vaulted out of his seat and heaved back on the chair the reporter was occupying, nearly dumping him on the floor. "Get the fuck away from us! Do you get it now?" He was clearly furious. For a moment Jim was worried he was going to take a swing at the guy, a very un-Sandburg-like response. 

Stephens finally rose, albeit a tad shakily, and gave them an insincere smile. "Hey, take it easy. Sure. No problem. Tomorrow, then."

"Damn reporters," Jim muttered as the man departed, but he was more concerned about his partner. "Take it easy, Chief." He coaxed Sandburg back into his seat. "We're not talking to that jerk tomorrow, either."

"Let me handle it," Simon volunteered, obviously a bit surprised at Sandburg's explosion. "I'll make sure you're out of it. Now don't let him spoil the evening. Finish your coffee, and we'll get you two back home."

&&&&&

"Home at last," Jim said with a sigh, throwing the deadbolt. "At least I think it's home. Do we live here?" He paused in the doorway, and felt Blair's head nestle between his shoulder blades with a sigh. "Why don't you hit the shower first, Chief? You're beat."

"I can wait," Blair said, as he wearily ducked around his partner. "I'll check the fridge, make out a shopping list for tomorrow." He started for the kitchen.

"Forget it," Jim said, following in close pursuit. "We're not going to worry about domestic tonight." Blair stopped, and slumped against the kitchen island. He looked unconvinced. "Besides, Chief, we don't need a list. When the cupboard is this bare, you buy everything." He stroked the back of his hand along the stubble of Blair's cheek and was rewarded with a smile. "Go on now. Just leave me some water when you shower."

"You sure?" Blair asked. He stared at his tattered, grimy clothing. "I don't mind being dirty, but this oily crap is awful. Five minutes and you bang on the door, okay? Don't let me lose track of time."

"Yeah, yeah," Jim said, already stripping off his first layer, a flannel shirt. He started to dig for a garbage bag under the sink. "Dump your clothes in the hall and I'll bag them for the trash along with mine. No way we're going to try to clean any of this stuff up." Blair nodded and headed for the bathroom. Jim walked out to the balcony, his grubby flannel thrown over his shoulder. This view of the sound was a lot more romantic than the view from the docks. He reveled in the shimmer of neon across the water. Sandburg's boots thudded in the hall, followed by the rustle of clothing and the sound of running water.

Certain his partner was in the shower, he headed inside, stripping clothing as he went. He stuffed Sandburg's clothes into the garbage bag and added his own. Their boots he bagged separately. They could clean them tomorrow. Standing in his boxers, Jim felt edgy, unable to relax. He resisted the temptation to join Blair in the shower. His partner needed a long soak, not groping, however well intentioned. For something to do, he started hot water on the stove. Sandburg had all kinds of herbal teas he swore relaxed the mind and eased aches and pains. From the sound of the sighs and groans coming from the bathroom, he might need them. Jim switched on the television and tried to find something to hold his interest while he waited.

In the midst of channel surfing, he realized the water had shut off abruptly. 

"Uh, Jim, I need some help here." Sandburg was standing in the bathroom doorway, his hair dripping, a towel awkwardly wrapped around his waist. He was looking over his left shoulder.

"What?" 

Blair turned slightly, and Jim could see the problem. The back of Blair's left shoulder and arm were darkening with an ugly bruise. A matching purple-black splotch spread across his left hip. Above the shoulder blade was an ugly, two-inch-long sliver of wood, just below the skin. Jim grimaced in sympathy. "Shit. When did this happen?"

Blair shifted uncomfortably. "Must have been when I took Gardner down and skidded along the pier into those barrels. I didn't pay much attention because I figured it was bruised. I didn't know until I started to scrub and felt it."

"Yikes, that's ugly." Jim looked closer, touching the injury gently. Heat flooded his fingertips; the splinter was already starting to fester. "That's got to come out, Chief, and it's going to take tweezers at least. Maybe a needle." 

Blair turned to protest. "No needles. I hated that when I was a kid. Look, maybe it will work itself out. Let's just leave it alone."

"You must be kidding." Jim rummaged in the linen closet for some the extra large beach towels. "Here, wrap up in these and come in the kitchen. You can sit down, and there's better light in there." Jim gathered up some disinfectant, tweezers and a needle from the first aide kit. His initial attempts had Blair swearing profusely. Jim shook his head. "This must have come off some damn rotting plank. I can't get a good grip on it with the tweezers. The wood's soft, and it just dissolves into mush. I think I'm going to have to pick it out bit by bit."

"Ah, man. Why me?" Sandburg looked at his boxer-clad partner and down at his own towel-wrapped body. "Let's just forget it and deal with it in the morning. Go shower." 

The kettle started to whistle, and Jim snatched it off the burner. "No can do, Chief. It's been buried in there more than twelve hours, and it's already infected. Trust me on this." He looked across the kitchen island. Blair sat hunched in the chair, still trying to keep the towels in place. "Look, go back in the shower, and maybe a little more will flush out. What kind of tea do you want?"

"There's a blue can on the top shelf," Blair said before shuffling off to do as Jim suggested.

Jim brewed the tea and spent the next ten minutes assembling some more first aide supplies. He took the time to thoroughly scrub and disinfect his hands. By the time Blair reemerged from the shower in a pair of boxers, he was ready. He motioned Blair to the couch and handed him a mug. "Here's your tea. That smells good, by the way. I know it has mint in it, but what's the other stuff?"

"Let's see," Blair said, sipping carefully. "It has a bunch of flowers in it, like rose petals and lavender, if I remember correctly. Stevia makes it sweet, and a bunch of stuff used for wounds in folk medicine."

"Sounds like a good combination. Turn away from me and let me take another look." Jim prodded gently with a needle. Only tiny bits worked free. After a few attempts, he could see it wasn't going to work. "No can do, Chief. Someone with a scalpel is going to have to open this up." Blair groaned. "I'll take a quick shower myself and then we'll hit the ER."

"No." Something in the tone of voice caught Jim up short. Blair turned to face him, and shook his head, eyes shut. "I'm not bleeding to death, and I can't face the ER tonight. Put some antibiotic cream on it and I'll go in the morning."

"But it's already infected," Jim started, but Blair cut him off.

"Jim, no. I can't deal with hospital crap right now. I'll take someone's head off. I've got to get some sleep. If it's worse tomorrow, so be it, but I can't stay awake another minute."

It was a bad idea. Jim knew it, but he could tell Blair had hit the proverbial wall. It would take two or three hours in the ER at a minimum, filling out forms, waiting on hard plastic chairs, not to mention the discomfort of the procedure. "You don't want to argue about this, do you?"

"I really don't. I know you're right, but please, let's not." Blair leaned his head into Jim's abs, his brow just above the navel and sighed. 

Jim ran his fingers through Blair's damp hair. "You play me like a fish, Sandburg."

When Blair looked up, his eyes seemed huge. "Yes, I do. Part of my charm." 

"You trot out that look, and I can't say 'no'. You win. I'll disinfect it again, slather it with antibiotic cream, cover it with a bandage. First thing tomorrow, you go in. No arguments."

Blair nodded and turned away to give Jim a clear view of his back. Shunting his misgivings aside, Jim went to work. He worked in the antibiotic cream, cringing himself every time Blair flinched in pain. He taped gauze over the area as best he could. "Finish your tea while I shower, and we'll go to bed." 

"Thanks. Take your time." Blair managed a smirk. "When I get you in bed, you can kiss it all better."

"Shameless, Sandburg. Absolutely shameless."

The loft's pathetic water heater had recovered, and hot water was in ample supply. Jim emerged from his soak eager to share a bed and some TLC with his partner. Momentarily thrown off by an empty living room and kitchen area, he tracked the sound of Blair's breathing into the spare room. Blair had was sprawled, face-down on the futon, soundly asleep. It seemed almost cruel to rouse him. 

The big bed upstairs beckoned, but Jim decided against it. Using spare blankets from the linen closet, he covered his partner, brushed a soft kiss on his brow, and climbed in beside him.

&&&&&

Ron Stephens' fingers flew over the keyboard, angrily stabbing at each letter. Grunt work, nothing but grunt work, minor local stories without a byline in sight. He'd taken the job in November, making the long drive from upstate New York, confident he could wow the locals in this west coast burg. Almost immediately, a disagreement with his editor had sent him to this purgatory. He was supposed to be earning his way back into the newsroom, but his editor, Patrick Belling, was just an old-fashioned martinet with no appreciation for creativity. He hadn't deserved to be taken off his beat. So he'd leaned on that social services lady a little hard during an interview. Big deal. A good reporter was supposed to bend the rules to get a good story, and here he was, being punished for taking some initiative.

Stephens seethed silently. He hated his boss and hated his job, but he didn't want to quit and hop to some other second-tier paper for more of the same. What he needed was a good story, a big one, just to show the old goat how wrong he was, something that would really get him some attention. Now a feature on Ellison would have been a real coup. Damn. 

But if he couldn't get a flashy interview, there were other ways. Anybody could stumble into an interview and take notes. Something with innovative research, with a little depth, that was the ticket. Ellison got plenty of headlines, but the scuttlebutt at the paper was that no one really made any headway with the man. He had an ominous reputation, and never courted publicity, but why let local folklore stop him? Lot's of stories got written without cooperation. He'd prove that he could do things that the rest of the rubes couldn't manage. If he managed to pull it off, the story would be something special. Belling, his editor, would have to take notice. That would force the old coot to give him the important stories he deserved. Hell, he might be able to play it into a regular column.

Stephens scowled at the work still waiting for him. He needed some time to pursue his ideas, and the only way to get it was to finish all these quickly. He snorted. Who cared if they represented quality writing? Who read this trash anyway? It was a total waste of his time.

He began typing feverishly, a man on a mission.

&&&&&

When Jim's eyes opened, his first thought was to look at the clock sitting on Sandburg's old desk. One glance and he groaned. Why was he awake at six-thirty in the morning? He was hoping for something more along the line of ñ say, ten or eleven.

He let his head flop back on the pillow. God, this old futon was awful. They ought to burn the thing and buy a decent mattress. He was still tired but, at some level, on alert. Something wasn't right. From long ingrained habit, he forced himself to relax and reached out with his senses. It took less than a minute to realize the source of his unease was right next to him: Blair. He pushed the covers back immediately.

Blair was still asleep on his stomach, and wasn't resting easily. He was hopelessly tangled in his share of the blankets. To Jim's touch, Blair's skin felt warm and clammy. The corner of the taped gauze had worked loose during the night. The exposed edge of the wound was scarlet, oozing around the edges. Jim reached out and let his hand hover close. The wound was hot. Damn! They should have taken care of this last night, tired or not.

Jim shook his sleeping partner, trying to be gentle. "Chief. Hey, babe, wake up."

"WhaÖ?"

Blair started to turn towards him, but Jim held him still with a light, but firm, hand. "Stay put. Let me check this." Jim carefully picked back the edge of the tape and lifted the rest of the bandage. The oozing edge of the wound was stuck to the gauze, prompting a low yelp from Sandburg.

"Oww." Blair looked awkwardly over his shoulder. "Man, what are you doing back there?"

Jim blanched. To his nose, a sour odor rose from the exposed wound. "Not good. We need to get this looked at. We shouldn't have waited."

Blair let his forehead sag back onto the pillow. "Take pity. I want to sleep," he pleaded.

"I know, but I don't think we can afford to let this go longer."

Blair looked at his clock. "It's early. Why are you awake at this God-awful hour?"

"Sorry, but you picked a sentinel for a bedmate. You must have been restless, or maybe the smell from this woke me up. I think you're running a low fever."

Blair groaned for effect. "So this is just part of the service?"

"Guess so. Sorry about that, Chief."

Blair gave him a kiss and rested his forehead on Jim's chest. "If you weren't so intoxicating, I'd cancel my subscription."

"Too bad. You signed up for life," Jim said, smiling sympathetically. "How do you feel?

"Like crap. My whole body hurts." Blair turned and sat up slowly, the blankets pooling at his waist. The bruises across his shoulder, arm and hip were now a vivid purple. He looked at his own body ruefully. "Not exactly ready for prime time, am I?" He yawned. "I was looking forward to a long, slow cuddle, and I want compensation. If I have to suffer in the ER, I want coffee and a bagel. A really good bagel."

"I'm not sure I appreciate being replaced by a bagel," Jim said, and brushed a kiss on his partner's warm brow. He clambered off the futon. "As long as you go, you get the best bagel in town. I'll go dress and be back down in five minutes. Stay put and I'll bring something down for you to wear. "

Jim took the stairs two at a time.

&&&&&

Stephens poured another cup of coffee from his thermos. He'd finished at the paper well after midnight, caught a few hours of sleep, and parked his aging Ford Escort a block from 852 Prospect. He wasn't entirely sure what he intended to accomplish. Maybe catch Ellison at home, in a weak moment? He remembered the steely glare he'd gotten the previous evening. Not encouraging, but he needed something big. Right now, there was nothing bigger in Cascade than Detective Ellison.

Cutting every corner possible, he'd freed up some time for research. The paper had plenty of Ellison-related information in the archive. There was the military record, Army Ranger, all the local-boy-turned-hero crap. Lots of headlines with the police department. A little more digging had turned up info on the other family in Cascade. Father William was retired, a successful businessman, and brother Stephen was apparently a chip off the old block. He'd even uncovered items from Ellison's childhood in the old microfiche files. As a boy he'd been quite the athlete, listed on the honor roll. Graduated from high school and promptly vanished, at least until returning to Cascade after the stint in the Army. 

That in itself was a bit odd. No announcements of college attendance or other minutiae which would have been typical for a socially prominent family. They were all there for the younger son, but not the elder. That might be an angle to pursue, and Stephens had filed it away for future reference. Maybe he could work in some sibling resentment. It was important to keep an open mind. Any angle was worth consideration.

Maybe all the locals knew this stuff, and just accepted Ellison as a tough subject. Well, he was better than these local west coast twerps, and Ellison didn't scare him. He needed some spectacular material, and if he ruffled feathers to get it, so be it. Really juicy material would be even better. There had to be an angle. He was sure of it.

A little time with the files had revealed the identity of the third man in the dinner party he'd approached the previous evening. Blair Sandburg, former police observer, former Rainier grad student, disgraced and tossed out on his ear. And here he was, still hanging around with Ellison? The whiff of scandal around the man piqued his interest. Perhaps that was yet another possibility.

Stephens almost choked on his coffee when Ellison, followed by Sandburg, emerged from 852 Prospect. Interesting. Considering he'd been sitting outside a couple of hours, Sandburg had to be an overnight guest, at a minimum. Did they live together? The two men headed for a ratty-looking Ford truck that made his own Escort look pretty plush. Stephens' eyes narrowed. Ellison opened the door for Sandburg. He seemed ñ attentive, might be the word. Here was another element to look into. 

Ellison wheeled out of the parking lot. Stephens waited, and then followed at what he assumed was a safe distance.

&&&&&

Jim hovered in the background as the nurse examined the digital thermometer solemnly. "You're definitely running a fever, Mr. Sandburg. Were you having any other symptoms earlier?"

Looking at his partner, bare to the waist and hunched miserably on the exam table, Jim realized Blair did look worn and pale, maybe even a little underweight. Well, that was possible. Neither of them had been getting regular meals, and he'd dropped a couple of pounds himself over the last month. He could understand the nurse's concern.

Blair shook his head. "No, I've been tired, not sick. We've been working a really tough case. You know, extra hours, that sort of thing."

"I saw the news. From the looks of those bruises, you need combat pay." She shook her head sympathetically. "And I complain about the ER. The doctor should be with you in just a few minutes. The local I gave you should be taking hold."

"Thanks," Blair said as she left.

Jim closed the magazine he'd been pretending to read. "I should never have let you talk me into putting this off."

"It was my choice, Jim. If I'd been in here last night, I would have done violence." He shivered. 

"I don't buy it, but I understand," Jim said. For all the world, Jim wanted to wrap this man in an embrace and make it all go away. Talk about being hopelessly romantic. Blair shuddered again. "I'll get you a blanket, Chief." Jim didn't wait for assistance. He went rummaging around until he found what he wanted. He draped one light cotton blanket around his friend's shoulders, and another over his lap. "There. That should be a little warmer. How does the shoulder feel? That needle looked like it had enough juice to knock down a horse," Jim said.

"Hey, I was on the receiving end. You'd think I was a pincushion. I swear, the local and all those needles are worse than anything else. " "You might not feel that way if they started digging around without the drugs. I hurt you last night, and I wasn't using a scalpel."

"Which is a bit much from someone with his own on-off switch," Blair groused. "I'm sure I'll be grateful when they start excavating. What a crappy way to start the day. Oh, man, we still have those reports to finish."

"Forget the reports." Jim cocked his head slightly to the side. "Heads up, Chief, I think your doc is finally here."

Dr. Merriwether, the resident, looked both sleepy and grumpy as he checked the chart. "Okay, if you're numbed up, we'll get started. Laura said this looked pretty nasty." He placed a tray of instruments within reach. It included another long, ominous looking hypodermic.

"What's that for?" Blair asked apprehensively. He'd clearly had enough needles for the day.

"The shot?" Merriwether asked. "Oh, when I get done here, you're going to need some antibiotics."

"What's wrong with pills?" Blair asked. He glared at Jim as if, somehow, he ought to put a stop to this. It was no secret between the two of them how much he hated shots.

"Oh, you'll get oral medication, too," Merriwether said. "God knows what was growing on those docks. I don't want to wait for the oral meds to kick in, so we'll pump a first dose of antibiotics by injection just to knock it back. Actually, we probably should update your tetanus shot while we're at it." He picked up a scalpel. "Okay, Mr. Sandburg. Here we go. It's not deep, but I'm going to have to scrape all the bits out of there. It'll be slow, but you shouldnít feel a thing."

"If I don't now, I will later. Oh, shit." Blair averted his eyes, looking a little green.

Despite his medic training, Jim couldn't help but feel the same way. It took a painstaking hour for all the fragments of soft wood to be picked out, and the wound thoroughly cleaned. Towards the end, with the local wearing off, Blair declined another injection, preferring to grit his teeth.

"That about does it." Merriwether looked at Jim. "I'm not going to stitch it. Everything was shallow, and it will heal faster with a little air. You can handle the wound care, can't you? It's a pretty awkward spot."

"No problem," Jim said. "Can you give me a surface antibacterial that's stronger than over-the-counter stuff?"

Merriwether was scribbling on a prescription pad. "Definitely. I'm prescribing an antibiotic cream we use for burns. There's a lot of raw skin left after I dug around, and like I said, I didn't stitch it closed." He tore the page off the pad, and turned back to Blair, who was grabbing for his shirt. "Not so fast. You still have a penicillin and a tetanus shot on your dance card, Mr. Sandburg. Lie flat and relax."

Blair groaned. Jim decided it was a good time to visit the pharmacy.

&&&&&

Mayor Killen's office sported three screens, each tuned to one of the local affiliates. Mark Kitsa, seated in front of them, wanted to dance. Leave it to Major Crime and Detective Ellison to crack a huge case at an extremely opportune moment. Their Homeland Security bid would be golden.

He grinned wolfishly at the other occupant of the office. "The coverage has been perfect, Julie. Admit it. You run the mayor, and let me take care of the message."

Julie watched the screen intently. "Well, we're definitely controlling the news cycle. My God, that Ellison is a looker. The female electorate would probably be happy to watch him brush his teeth."

Kitsa thoughtfully sipped his coffee. "Oh yeah, and we're going to ride him like a pony. Every time we link Killen with Ellison in the public's mind, we give Rick a little more gravitas. We'll see a difference in our focus groups. I guarantee it."

The latest installment of the smuggling coverage ended. "How long can we extend this?" McGinn asked. "Ellison doesn't willingly go on camera. You must have some scheme in mind?"

"For another day or so, with the arrests fresh in everyone's mind, we can do most of it with Killen. Just have our good Mayor keep dribbling information out, and keep the media looking to us for information. As you've pointed out, it would be nice to keep Ellison in front of the cameras, but he doesn't make statements gratuitously." Kitsa shrugged. "On the other hand, he won't compete with us, either." Julie didn't look ecstatic. "Come on, Julie. This is great."

"You do realize that every time we put Killen out there with a statement, we could have a disaster. He's not good off the cuff, as you well know."

"So you keep up your train-the-monkey routine. He can chant what's written on his talking points when you coach him. I'll give you the copy. You get it to come out of his mouth. If we keep him in our briefing room, I can control the timing and flow."

"Okay," McGinn said. "It's worked so far, so I'll shut up. What about next week? The prosecutors aren't going to keep releasing information. They'll want to keep things under wraps until trial."

"Already thought of that. We're going to give an award."

"An award? What are you babbling about?" 

"Julie. I'm surprised at you," Kitsa said, scolding with a smile. "The award that I'm going to make up, of course. Lots of good feelings all around. Warren will like it, because he appreciates it when his officers get the credit they deserve."

McGinn laughed softly. "Beautiful certificates, maybe an outdoor venue for some great photo ops. Plenty of praise for our gallant officers on the front lines, especially the good-looking ones. I'm on it."

"And every syllable gets tied to the Homeland Security bid," Kitsa added. "So now you toddle out while I write, do your best cheerleader routine, and prep the mayorÖ"

"Öso he can call Chief Warren, and Warren can line up his troops, and those wonderful cameras can record it all for the voters."

"And those Federal decision makers. With all their lovely cash."

McGinn closed her eyes in mock bliss. "Some days I really love this job."

&&&&&

"I'm taking you home."

"Jim, you most certainly are not. I can just see the medical form: disability by splinter. No, no and no. I can't take the humiliation."

"Don't be an idiot, Sandburg. It's infectedÖ"

"And just as quickly getting uninfected. Don't be a jerk." Jim didn't change course, and Blair rolled his eyes, exasperated. "I endured a shot for this. You heard the doctor. Now that it's treated, it's no big deal. My fever's down, and you, of all people, know it. Now cut it out, and let's get this over with."

"That doctor was all of twelve. What does he know?" Jim continued resolutely in the direction of the loft.

"He was perfectly competent and you're overreacting. You mean well, but enough already." After a block Blair slugged him on the shoulder. "Jim, my love, the minute you leave I will be on the way to the station through other means. What do you intend to do? Cuff me to a pipe?"

Jim kept his eyes on the road, and allowed a smirk to flicker across his mouth. "We've always had a good time with those handcuffs." 

Blair stifled a laugh. Jim could be an incorrigible flirt, but he was serious. "Don't test me, Jim."

Jim read his partner's mulish attitude and surrendered. He took the next right, reversed direction and headed for the station.

Completing the reports and documenting evidence took well into the afternoon. Jim offered several times to finish up alone, only to be turned down. In retrospect, he shouldn't have pushed so hard in the first place, and from a practical angle, he couldn't argue. Even a bit under the weather, Sandburg could turn out accurate paperwork in a fraction of the time it took Jim. Despite the logic of the decision, Jim regretted it. Despite the antibiotics and the fever banished, Blair was still uncomfortable. Aspirin couldn't eliminate all the general aches and pain. He hadn't slept well, and the fatigue Jim had noticed the day before was even more apparent.

"I think that's the last of it," Jim said, sorting through the neatly organized papers on his desk. "Let's get you out of here."

"Jim, don't hover." Blair hit the print button. He opened his top desk drawer and rooted through the clutter. "Do you have any more aspirin? I need some."

Jim supplied two tablets quickly. "Is your fever up?" 

"Belay the ambulance run, Jim. It's more of a headache. Too long at the computer screen, I guess."

"Can't argue with that," Jim said. "The bad guys are going to win by burying us in the stuff." He kept sorting reports into their final form; copies to Simon, to Rhonda and the DA's office.

"I'll take those to Rhonda," Blair said. Jim winced in sympathy as Blair slowly stretched his stiff muscles. From long habit, he tracked his partner across the bullpen. With his attention absorbed, Jim was aware that the bullpen door had opened, but didn't look up.

"Detective Ellison!" a familiar voice boomed. "I'm glad I caught you." Jim started, and instantly regretted that it was too late to run for cover. He straightened up to greet Chief Warren. There was no avoiding the enthusiastic handshake. "Excellent work, Detective, excellent work. It's a proud moment for the entire department, not just Major Crime."

"Thank you, sir," Jim managed, a bit annoyed about being caught by surprise. Over Warren's shoulder, he could see Blair on his way back from Rhonda's desk. Predictably, his partner melted off to the side, avoiding Warren entirely.

"I've been on the phone with Mayor's office all day. Come with me while I talk with Banks," Warren said, moving Jim out of the bullpen before he could mount a meaningful protest. Warren was so intent on the conversation he didn't bother to completely shut the door. "I have to tell you, Detective, closing this case came at an extremely opportune moment. The city administration has been seriously lobbying for Cascade to be the site of a new regional office for Homeland Security." 

Jim and Simon exchanged glances. Rumors about such a move abounded, and both men shared the opinion that an additional Federal presence was a mixed blessing. A very mixed blessing.

Warren, however, was apparently thrilled. "Seattle's overloaded. The port and our proximity to Canada put us in the running for a second headquarters. Closing this case is a clear demonstration of our expertise. The timing couldn't be more perfect. For a change, the Feds are mighty pleased with us, and they're impressed. In fact, as of this morning, we're a finalist for the site. A full delegation from Homeland Security is coming next month. We're on the inside track in the selection process." He tapped Simon's desk calendar. "The department is being awarded a special citation, and you'll be getting one personally. It's quite the feather in our cap. I need you to clear the tenth for the presentation and news conference. I appreciate the fact that you don't enjoy the limelight, but no arguments. We need to use the opportunity to our advantage."

Jim had plenty of arguments, but his own humility wasn't his main issue. Judging from Warren's attitude, the chance of success if he voiced his multiple concerns weren't good. He could barely hide his grimace. "Yes, sir. Time?"

"The entire day, and actually, take off the ninth as well. I'll be hosting a dinner in the evening, and a tour of some of our facilities." 

_Oh, goody, dinner and an entire day of schmoozing_. Jim would rather have root canal. "Begging your pardon, sir, that's a lot of time for us to be off the schedule. Major Crime is stretched pretty thin."

"Not your worry, Ellison," Warren said dismissively. "Your partner can handle things for a day or two. Sandburg, the observer, right?"

"No, sir. Sandburg the detective," Jim said. He didn't keep the edge of irritation out of his voice. He put the emphasis on the word 'detective'. Warren knew full well Blair's status, but he still used the 'observer' label out of habit. Jim deliberately ignored Simon's warning look. "He's been official for nearly two years. Anyone in Major Crime will tell you he's earned that gold shield ten times over."

"Oh, yes, of course. Slip of the tongue." Warren focused on Jim intently, suddenly concerned. "He is up to it, isn't he? Working on his own, that is?"

Damn the man! And the door would have to be open. Warren's voice carried, and Blair had to have heard that 'slip of the tongue', as Warren put it. Jim barely stifled an angry response to the question. In the same moment, he had an image of Blair's haggard face, sitting there in the ER. It was like a knife through Jim's conscience. How dare this man question his partner's competence? It just wasn't right. Sandburg wasn't some second-class tagalong. 

All of sudden, Jim didn't give a shit about being politically correct. "Sir, with all due respect, Sandburg should be there at the presentation, not be pulling double duty covering for me. The really big breaks came from his insights, not from me."

"Well ñ I'll discuss this with Banks. Your modesty is noted, Ellison, but you are the senior investigator, after all." Warren clapped Jim on the back, smiling away this little sidestep into reality. "Look forward to seeing you when our dignitaries arrive. Dust off your dress blues." He disappeared from Simon's office. 

Jim glared at his retreating back, knowing that, at least for the moment, the discussion was over. Judging from Simon's stormy expression, it was a waste of time to lobby his boss. He needed to find Sandburg. He zipped out of the office into the bullpen. "Brown, where didÖ?"

"Restroom," Henri answered, supplying the needed information, his face a bit mournful. "We overheard. Hey, man, you tried. All of us know how good Sandburg is."

Jim snorted. "Right. I wonder when we'll start acting like it?"

He found Blair in the restroom, splashing water on his face. "Think Simon will mind if we go? I've think we've done enough."

Jim ripped some paper towels out of the dispenser and handed them to his dripping partner. "Nice diversion, Chief. I know you heard. It ticks me off."

Blair leaned against the basin with both hands. "You should have let it go." He buried his face in the paper towels so Jim couldn't see his eyes. He didn't need to. Jim knew the hurt that lurked there.

"I don't want to let it go. It's dishonest, not to mention insulting."

Blair tossed the towels into the trash. "Be that as it may, it's not practical. I'm an embarrassment to them, Jim, and I could be out in a heartbeat." 

Jim started to protest immediately. "An embarrassment? That's just not true!"

"Of course it's true, and it serves no purpose to deny it." Blair just sighed, with a rueful glance at the stalls. "We're alone, so I can say this. I love you, you love me. We don't advertise, for a multitude of very good reasons. This recognition crap is the same sort of thing. For my sake, don't give them any excuses to change our official arrangement. How would you feel if the powers that be decided to transfer me, or you, for that matter? Keep sight of what's really important to us."

"They couldn't ñ Simon would ñ"

Blair shook his head slowly, and his brow was furrowed in a deep frown. "It could happen. Simon can't fix everything. Being together, in all things, is worth putting up with words that don't really matter, isnít it?" He waited expectantly for his words softened Jim's expression, and was rewarded as his lover's piercing gaze faded into a kind of regretful fondness. "Can we go now? I don't want to argue."

Jim bit back another torrent of words. He didn't have the heart to harass Blair over the issue. They disagreed and, truthfully, they were both partially in the right. Nothing was that black and white. "Tell you what. At least let me pamper you a little. Why don't we take a minute and make a grocery run? Just the essentials. We can call ahead to Dawson's, and I bet they'd be willing to let us do a pickup. How does some of their deli fried chicken sound?"

"With the potato salad? The one that has the blue cheese?" Blair said, his voice brightening a bit. "Throw in dessert and you have a deal."

&&&&&

"Ron, this is a really bad idea. I could get fired for this."

Ron Stephens covered his irritation with a seductive smile. "Trina, baby, who's going to know?" He leaned across the car, kissed her once, then again until she relented. "I just want to check a few things. No harm done to anyone." He started scanning the contents of the file. Some of the medical jargon was a little hard to understand. It was also thick, much thicker than he expected, and he hadn't even looked at Ellison's file yet. This was going to take a while for him to digest.

"Honey, please, I've got to go back. Give me the files, so I can put them back. I never should have let you talk me into this." 

Stephens ignored the woman sitting in the passenger seat. It was convenient to have contacts in low places. Trina Rice was a CNA at Cascade General, and his girlfriend, sometimes. Of course, she didn't really know how 'sometimes' she really was. Following a story was a convenient excuse when some other pretty young thing attracted his eye. Trina wasn't too bright. She'd never catch on, and she definitely had her uses. He continued to read the medical file Trina had removed from the hospital. Sandburg had an admission for a drug overdose? And now he was a detective? This was dynamite all by itself.

"Ron," Trina begged, tugging on his sleeve. "Come on! I can't stay out here beyond my break."

"All right, go back to work then!" Stephens said angrily. "You can put the files back tomorrow."

"That's not Öyou said I just had to sneak them out for a few minutes!" Trina wailed. "You promised!"

Stephens grabbed her wrist, hard enough to hurt. "Quiet. Just go back to work, and do your job. Nobody's looking for these files. Even if they do, they'll just assume they're misplaced, or filed in the wrong section. You don't work in records. No one will suspect you." He shut the file, started the car and wheeled around to the front of the hospital. "Hop out. I'll come by your apartment tonight." He kissed her again. God, why did such a nice body have to come in such a dimwitted package?

"Promise?" she said with a pout.

"Promise." He ran a hand suggestively across her breast. "We'll have a nice time." She slammed the door, obviously not satisfied, but not willing to defy him. Stupid bitch. 

He had to be at work at three, and it was already one-thirty. He had no intention of going to Trina's until well after midnight. She wouldn't like it, but she wasn't the priority right now. He drove downtown and headed for a bar a block from the paper. He wanted to settle in a booth and read this stuff down to the last detail.

He ordered fries and vodka straight. He'd rather have a beer, but Belling would have a fit if he showed up with beer on his breath. Let the old goat lay down his rules and regulations. He was going to parlay this into a great story, get a killer exposÈ, and leave all that crap behind.

&&&&&

Blair stood at the sink, downing his antibiotics and another dose of aspirin. "I don't understand how this got ahead of my immune system so fast."

Jim was busy putting away the groceries they'd picked up. "You're run down, Chief. We both are. Aren't you always telling me what stress and poor nutrition does to the immune system? Here, can you put this chicken in a bowl and take out some plates?"

"Got it," Blair said, handing plates across the island. "I'm starved."

Jim opened the containers and reveled in the smell of newly-fried chicken Blair was stacking. "I hope we bought enough."

"Jim, we bought twice as much as we normally would."

"Doesn't matter. I'm twice as hungry. You want honey with the rolls?"

"Oh, yeahÖ'cause we're so sweet," Blair sang.

"Oh, save me. End the concert and turn on some decent music."

"Decent by my standards or yours?" Blair quipped.

It felt great to sit down and eat an entire meal with actual plates and silverware, and the stress of the day faded. They finished every last scrap of chicken, all the potato salad, three apples and the rolls. Jim immediately went digging for the cookies he'd bought.

"Haven't you eaten enough?" Blair asked. "You'll explode, and I'll be forced to clean up."

"This will do more for you than the antibiotics, Sandburg," Jim said, placing an oatmeal chocolate chip on Blair's plate and three on his own. He frowned. "We should have ice cream, too. Do you think we need chocolate syrup?"

Blair rolled his eyes. "Is that the tapeworm talking?"

"You're right," Jim said, making a beeline for the fridge. "What am I doing, asking you, the man who believes sugar is demonic, for advice about dessert? We need ice cream, whipped cream, and the syrup." To his delight, Blair quit complaining when he used a fingertip to layer a huge swipe of chocolate on the man's bottom lip, and seductively kissed it off.

They did the dishes and collapsed on the couch. Jim fussed with the remote, bouncing between choices until he settled on a game he wasn't really interested in. "I can't remember when we had time to watch a game. Chief?" His voice trailed off, along with any hopeful visions of cuddling on the couch. Blair wasn't completely asleep, but his eyes were shut. His head kept nodding to the side. Jim kept the television low and waited ten more minutes. By that time, Blair was soundly asleep. Jim carefully covered him with a throw, positioned his head on a pillow and arranged the limp legs over his own lap. He could wake him up to go to bed later. 

The game failed to hold Jim's attention. He dozed off, his last thoughts about an earlier version of Sandburg, lecturing him on the need for a sentinel to use rest to reestablish baseline. 

He awoke in a darkened loft, illuminated only by the flicker of light from the television. The fragments of a dream still lingered - the image of him on a military reviewing stand, his uniform covered in medals, with Sandburg, dressed in drab coveralls, sweeping the floor below him with a gigantic push broom. The image disturbed him, and he rubbed his stomach. Must have been that extra helping of ice cream sending his imagination into overdrive. 

Jim switched off the television and padded into the kitchen in stocking feet. He turned on only a single light in the kitchen. No sense in startling Blair, who was still sleeping soundly, with a blast of harsh light. He checked the prescription bottle, still perched on the counter by the sink. Sandburg would need a final dose before turning in for the night. He spilled a capsule into his hand and got a glass of water.

He nudged Blair gently. "Hey, Sandburg, time to wake up." 

Blair blinked owlishly, a bit disoriented. After a moment, he smiled and stretched. "Did I crash?"

"You might call it that."

Blair sat up. "Whoa, it's night? Weren't we going to watch the game? Who won?"

"I don't know. I slept through it, too. Here, take your meds."

"Damn, Jim, we are pathetic." He swallowed the tablets in two gulps. "This is why kids don't want to get old. Tomorrow they'll be fitting us for dentures and walkers."

"Come on, Chief," Jim said, offering his hand to pull his love off the couch. "We can put off the nursing home for a couple days at least. Now that you've rested up, come to bed. I have plans for you."

"Plans?" Blair said, with a note of interest. "What kind of plans?"

Jim just smiled as he backed up the stairs, drawing Blair by both hands in his wake.

&&&&&

Stephens swore softly. Why did the old coot pick tonight, of all nights, to be a presence? Patrick Belling was so old school he was practically carved in stone. Here he was, nitpicking over every single story, as if this local shit mattered. He'd planned on spending most of his shift pursing the Sandburg ñ Ellison project, not rewriting copy to Belling's exacting standards. So his stories weren't good enough? Good enough for what? A bunch of drivel buried on page nine? Who cared? No one read them.

Another hour of rewrites, and he delivered his copy for final approval. Belling took his time, and accepted the stories just moments before the 9:00 PM deadline. Over his keyboard, he watched the older man finally put on his coat and depart. Thank God. He was supposed to spend the rest of his shift digging through interview notes from a senior center, putting them in order. Not for himself, of course, but for another reporter who was doing a long-term feature assignment. Stupid busywork. Let the guy do his own grunt work.

Surreptitiously, he went back to his digging on Ellison and Sandburg. He pulled out his notes, cross-referencing the medical reports with any stories involving Ellison. His initial excitement about Sandburg's overdose treatment dimmed quickly. The Times had run a big story the following day, detailing how the members of a drug ring had delivered contaminated pizza to Major Crime. They hadn't mentioned Sandburg by name, referring only to 'departmental personnel' who had been stricken and received treatment.

The drug thing was unusual enough to be intriguing, but not exactly the exposÈ material he was hoping for. As he continued to look, most of the entries on Sandburg's medical history lined up with a case. Some of the ER visits were fairly minor: a sprain, a mild concussion, a few precautionary checks that didnít end up requiring extensive treatment. There were a quite a few of them, even a gunshot wound in the leg when Captain Banks had been taken hostage. What kind of a rodeo were they running in Major Crime anyway?

He'd started with the time period closest to the drug overdose, since that had caught his eye initially. Now he changed strategies. Instead of working from a known Ellison case to the medical records, he reversed the procedure, starting with the Sandburg medical entry. His list of matching cases spilled onto a second page. Clearly, Sandburg the observer had been involved in plenty of action, and most of it hadn't come to the attention of the press.

Then he found it. Resuscitation from drowning? The EMTs had pronounced him dead? What the hell was this guy Sandburg? Some kind of a cat with nine lives? 

He found the matching case. A week later, he found a follow-up story about stolen nerve gas. Banks, Ellison and some Aussie had pursued a suspect to Central America, recovered the gas and made the arrest. No mention of Sandburg, but the records showed he'd checked out of the hospital AMA. The same day as the follow-up story ran, he'd been readmitted for treatment of pulmonary infection. From the looks of things, Ellison had stepped off the plane and taken his little buddy to the hospital. Damn, if only he could get to the records of Sandburg's personal physician! This had to be just the tip of the iceberg.

Stephens realized the time and looked around the room. Computer screens in all directions were dark. Everyone had gone home. He gathered up his notes and the stolen medical files. He wasn't writing an exposÈ yet, but he could smell it. The story wasn't with Ellison. The story was Sandburg. You expected police officers to encounter physical danger. No news in that. But risking the life of a civilian, repeatedly, and glossing it over? Ellison had to know what was going on, which meant the high and mighty Captain Simon Banks also knew. Combine that with a few questions about how the guy had eventually become a cop after leaving Rainier under a cloud, and you got a pretty volatile mix.

Nothing like a cover-up to tickle the reading public's taste for scandal. Stephens eyes gleamed with anticipation. He just had to hone his angle. Getting the story, and the headlines, was just a matter of time and effort. Then he could kiss this lousy assignment, and his idiot editor, goodbye.

Damn, he didn't feel so tired anymore. Maybe he'd go wake up Trina after all.

&&&&&

"How does it look?" Blair asked, craning his neck to try and catch a glimpse. To Jim's eye, he looked better after a full night's rest.

"Better," Jim muttered, concentrating on working the antibiotic cream into the areas that still looked red and angry. "No fever," he said almost begrudgingly.

"Thank you, oh great sentinel. Please note that my predictions from yesterday were entirely accurate. No big deal. Recovery without bed rest and round-the-clock monitoring." 

"Not that you'd gloat or anything. Quit wiggling around so I can tape this gauze in place." Jim stepped back and looked at him critically. "Your color looks better. How do you feel?"

"Like I'll live." He slid his arms affectionately around Jim's waist, pulling him close. "You worry too much."

Jim laughed when Blair nuzzled his abs with a playful snort. "You're impossible. As much as I enjoy the view, you don't look good in goose bumps." Jim retreated a step and packed the first aid supplies away. "Find something comfortable. I'm ready to cook blueberry pancakes if you're interested."

"Music to my ears." Blair popped up to rummage through the closet they now shared.

Pancakes were well underway when Blair straggled down the stairs. He got a mug of coffee for himself and brought Jim a glass of orange juice. He hooked his chin over Jim's shoulder while the taller man concentrated on his cooking. 

"Don't distract me, Chief. These are going to be masterpieces. That would be a waste of these fat, juicy blueberries."

"I'll fat, juicy you, and I live to distract you," Blair said, leaning close. "Tell me you don't enjoy it."

Jim reached back and tickled Blair's ribs, which produced some very satisfying wriggling and no attempt at escape. This was a vast improvement over the weary, discouraged version of his partner. "I take the fifth. It would serve you right if I burned these."

"But you won't. They're masterpieces, remember? You wouldn't overcook them out of spite."

"There you go, Chief," Jim said, sliding a stack of pancakes onto Blair's waiting plate. He heaped some on his own and they settled down to eat. "Simon called while you were dressing. He gave us an out, but if we're feeling up to it, he'd like us to work swing so he can give Henri and Rafe a break."

"So we have half the day to ourselves? Tell him we'll be there," Blair said around a mouthful of pancake. "These are great, Jim."

Jim savored a bite of his own. "Yeah, they are, aren't they? We need to do anything before we go in?"

"Besides the laundry taking on a life of its own?" Blair asked sarcastically. "We wash or buy a new supply of underwear and socks."

"Spoken like someone who wears them straight out of the package."

Blair shrugged. "Not my fault you're fussy." "You're right," Jim admitted. "Make you a deal. If you handle the laundry, I'll do some work in that landfill we jokingly call a bathroom. There's enough mold in the shower to start chemical war."

"So I'll be living with eau de Clorox? With your senses, I don't know how you stand it."

"I'm willing to dial down in the interests of sanitation."

"So you say," Blair said, collecting the plates. "Leave the dishes. I'll start a load of wash and then do them."

"So you're not helping in the bathroom?" Jim said with a smirk.

"Surely you jest. Even if I did, it wouldn't pass muster. It would just be a complete waste of time. Go forth and Clorox with my blessings. Just open the window, and be sure to wear the gloves. Remember what happened to your skin the last time you fumigated the tile."

"Yes, Mom. What was that about worrying?"

"It's called data, Jim. Actual data, objectively collected and recorded." With that parting shot, Blair headed for the closet in his old room where most of the laundry accumulated. He left the overloaded hamper at Jim's feet. "Just for that, you can do the sorting while I strip the sheets."

&&&&&

"Come on, Jerry. It's not like I haven't done you a favor now and then," Stephens wheedled. He'd met Patrolman Jerry Cahala at a pickup basketball game right after he'd moved. They'd met a few times since.

"Is that so, Ron? Then why is it I hardly see you unless you need a parking ticket fixed?"

"Hey, it's not my fault I'm stuck on the evening shift. You think I like it? Besides, I've gotten us into a couple of things with my press pass. So help me out here."

Cahala sighed. "Fine, but you have to buy lunch." He took another bite of his burger, waiting for Stephens' answer.

"Okay, okay. I'll buy. This isn't on an expense account, you know. So tell me about Sandburg." He leaned forward slightly, eager to continue his project.

"Not much to tell. Met him ñ let's see ñ four years ago. I'd seen him around before then, but hadn't talked to him. He was logging in evidence for Ellison. Seemed like a nice enough guy. Not your typical police type, but he was a grad student then, and people cut him some slack."

"What did people say about him? You know, the scuttlebutt."

"Not much," Cahala said, chewing on a fry. "There are stories, of course. When those nutcase Sunrise Patriots took over the station, Sandburg took out one of the bad guys with a vending machine. You had to hand it to the guy for thinking on his feet. Kind of broke the ice, even. People just got used to him being around Ellison all the time, and after awhile no one questioned it."

"What about the drug thing ñ the pizza?"

"Oh, yeah, well that raised some eyebrows, but it wasn't really his fault, you know. Took a little ribbing about shooting up the parking garage, but we were lucky it was him and not a cop. The cop would have had a better aim."

"Sandburg fired a gun? In the garage?" Stephens asked incredulously. 

"Yeah. That golden was nasty shit. Poor guy was hallucinating. Ellison talked him down. Word is they nearly lost him on the way to the hospital."

"And no one said anything? That sure wasn't in the newspaper story."

"Not the kind of thing we want shopped around. How can you fault a guy for eating a pizza? I would have taken a slice. Who turns down free food? I think everyone knew Ellison works the really dicey stuff, and it came with the territory."

This still wasn't what Stephens was fishing for. "How about when he joined the force?"

"Hmmph ñ well, that was different. One minute he's saying Ellison is superman, the next they're kicking his ass out of Rainier. Turn around and he's at the Academy? Go figure. Put a few noses out of joint when he got a gold shield to boot. That had to come from on high. Major Crime is a plum, the job everyone wants. Banks is very picky about who he takes. It kinda pissed people off."

"You said he couldn't shoot. Is he actually qualified? So someone pulled strings?"

Cahala thought about that, and sighed again. "Like I'd know? Let's just say it was unusual. Still, the guy went through the Academy like every recruit, graduated at the top of his class. I heard some of his scores were off the charts, 'cause the guy is scary-smart." He chewed another fry thoughtfully. "Besides, Ellison's the top cop in the department. My guess is that if he wants a specific partner, he gets it." Cahala rolled another fry in catsup. "I'm still walking a beat, and I'd like to move up, but I can't fault the setup. Look at their arrest record. It's hard to argue with success."

"Sounds like the rest of you get a raw deal. Maybe you'd have that record if you were working with Ellison," Stephens said slyly.

"Not worth it. Listen, Ron, Ellison's a good cop, but he was hard on partners. No one was waiting in line when Sandburg showed up. Word is he's mellowed, but his rep is still pretty ferocious. Get in Ellison's way and he'll eat you. Sandburg seems to smooth off the edges, but he must take a lot of shit. Better him than me."

"Maybe they have something going," Stephens suggested. "Did you know they live together?" To his disappointment, Cahala didn't rise to the bait.

"So what? The guy was a grad student, and his place blew up. That's another little piece of local history. If you start asking around about crap like that, you might want to be a little more diplomatic, Ron. I know a couple guys who had an up close and personal discussion with Ellison after throwing around rumors. That warning isn't limited by topic area, either. Not smart, my man. Ellison would seriously consider beating the shit out of you."

"He's done that for a fact?"

"I don't know," Cahala said. "It's a figure of speech. Don't go putting words in my mouth. He follows the rules, but he's just not the kind of guy you want to mess with. Partners watch each other's backs, and that goes for all partners. Ellison's no different. You want to find out for sure, be my guest. I'll send flowers."

Stephens sipped his coke and let it go. Cahala had given him plenty of little tidbits to pursue, even if they came with a warning. So what if Ellison was a tough guy? A few threats would just make a better story.

&&&&&

After a marathon laundry and cleaning session, taking a swing shift was a relief. A little proverbial 'Afternoon Delight' hadn't hurt either. They strolled in feeling clean, comfortable and fairly rested. Jim headed to the break room with two mugs to get coffee, and Blair made the trek to their work area. 

Since Sandburg had gotten his badge, a small desk had been wedged in for him at ninety degrees to Jim's. The computer had moved to Blair's desk, since he was the superior typist. In a pinch, Jim broke out a laptop that Blair had retired from active service. It was a beater, but sufficed for word processing. Blair sat down and sorted through the detritus on their combined desks, leaving the case file from their fellow detectives for Jim to start with.

"Okay, so what do we have here?" Jim asked out loud. He handed a mug of coffee to his partner and started reading through the handwritten notes Rafe and Brown had left for them. "Two outstanding murders, both pretty cold. We have a list of 'persons of interest' they haven't been able to trace. Mmmm, they landed the dance club assaults. No wonder Simon didn't want to let that drop, even for a day."

"They have that case?" Blair asked with interest. "I thought vice was primary on that one."

"They were." Jim flipped through several sheets in the folder. "There's an administrative memo in here. The department was taking some heat over apparent lack of effort. Seems some of our good citizens believe crimes against gay men aren't getting the attention they deserve." Jim continued to read. "Case got kicked up to Major Crime right before things started to break on our dock case. When Rafe and Brown got called in to help us close on the docks, it kind of interrupted their flow."

"What do you want to do first?" Blair asked. "Does Simon have a preference?"

Jim held up a post-it note, covered with Simon's felt-tipped scrawl. "I think this says, 'dance case', but I'm not entirely sure."

Blair took the note. "Hmm. This part at the bottom might be 'solve it yesterday'. I think we go with it. Rafe and Brown came through for us when we needed it."

Jim kept scanning the file. "The dance club case is definitely the hot one. All the usual interviews are done. And yeah, I can see why someone might feel there was a lack of effort. The pace doesn't show a lot of urgency. Vice wasn't doing much more than taking the reports after the fact." He looked up with a grin. "Anything else will have to be a little more creative. Let's use the fact that no one associates us with this case."

Blair propped his chin up on his hands. "You have that devious look in your eye. Why do I foresee some undercover in my future?"

"You do look good in those ratty old jeans when they come right out of the dryer," Jim said with a smile. "How convenient you just washed them." 

Blair promptly wadded up a sheet of paper and hit his partner between the eyes. "I washed every thread we own."

Jim quickly checked the clock in the bullpen, which read shortly after three. "It's too early in the afternoon to hit the clubs. Let's work on the persons-of-interest list, break for dinner, change clothes, and see what we can turn up."

"I'll pull up case summaries of the assaults so we can read while we drive," Blair said.

"I'll call Serena, see if anything looked significant on the forensics side of things. Meet you in ten at the truck."

&&&&&

"Excuse me, Mr. ñ what did you say your name was?"

"Stephens. Ron Stephens, Cascade Times."

"Mr. Stephens. You must know that personnel records are not available for perusal by the press," Vera said.

"Oh, I understand completely," Stephens said, making an effort to reassure her. "I absolutely wouldn't ask you to do anything illegal." _If there weren't monitors in here, I'd wring your scrawny neck and be all over these files._ "Aren't there some, say, insurance summaries that would give me the information in general terms?"

"I suppose." Vera scowled down her glasses at him. "I can't hand departmental records over to just anyone, you know. I'll need to clear it with my supervisors."

"Certainly. Whom should I speak with?" Stephens inwardly squirmed when Vera seemed unmoved. Time to turn on the charm. "You see, I just don't think the general public appreciates the risks their officers on the street take day to day. I want this story to highlight the sacrifices they make every day, at great physical risk."

"Yes. Well, I suppose." Vera produced a blank sheet of paper with obvious reluctance. "Put your request in writing and check with me in a few days."

Stephens could see further wheedling would do no good. He smiled sweetly and sat down, using a couple of magazines for a writing surface. It wasn't his fault the personnel department at the Cascade PD was run by a humorless old biddy. He resigned himself to writing down a few lies to get what he wanted. As an afterthought, he added the name of a reporter in another department as a supervisor rather than his own editor. O'Neil was on vacation for a couple of weeks. If absolutely necessary, he could make a return confirming call from O'Neil's phone. There were only a few perks in writing on the late shift, but raiding someone's desk happened to be one of them, as long as you were careful.

&&&&&

Jim unlocked the door, and Blair walked into the loft, carrying the pizza which was their dinner. "I feel bad we didn't find any of those guys for Rafe and H," he said over his shoulder. "We didn't do much to help them out."

"H thinks they skipped town. Not much anyone can do." Jim rummaged around in the fridge. "At least it gives them a fewer boxes to check off later. Water okay for you, Chief?"

"Sure thing," Blair said. He stopped at the sink and washed up before collecting plates and silverware. "They were okay with our plans for tonight? If they only knewÖ" 

They both chuckled at the irony of working on this particular case. Their discovery of mutual attraction had been followed by rather spectacular sessions with Naomi and Ellison senior. After weathering those two particular storms, informing Simon had been child's play by comparison. Simon had taken the news relatively well, and agreed it would be easier on the rest of the group to be discrete. Since their living arrangement predated the relationship, it wasn't that difficult.

"Talk about getting a mess dropped in your lap. The case is a minefield," Jim said. "Unless there's a spectacular break, they'll get nothing but criticism, no matter how hard they work. They're happy for any help."

"So we're going dancing, are we?" He waggled his eyebrows at Jim.

"Yep, you sexy thing you," Jim said, helping himself to two large slices of pizza. "There have been eleven possible assaults linked to this case. In over half, the victim came with a group of people and decided to stay, or somehow got separated. I think we can go in, make a point of being seen together, and separate. We'll try that, and see who seems interested."

"You know what Simon would say about going undercover without backup," Blair said.

"I don't see this as a sting, just an opportunity to make conversation. Get a feel for the places and who parties there. If someone tells us something significant, we can pass it on to H and Rafe. It's their case." He took a bite of pizza with relish. "Besides, you're a wounded man. I'm not keeping you out until the coach changes into a pumpkin. In fact, we're both going to grab a nap."

Blair yawned, nodding in agreement. "Okay, I could catch a few ZZZZs, but I still think you ought to call Simon. And knock it off with the wounded stuff. I feel fine now that I kicked the headache and the fever." 

Ten minutes later, the pizza was gone. Jim deliberately served Blair a slice every time he grabbed one for himself. He'd be satisfied when his partner gained back a few pounds and had real color in his cheeks. "That was good," Jim said, finishing off the last bite. "Go crawl under the covers and I'll clean up."

Blair opted to burrow under the comforter upstairs. Jim purposely dawdled, giving his partner a chance to doze off completely before joining him. Blair had a habit of sacrificing sleep for more exciting physical activity when given the opportunity. As much a Jim enjoyed the enthusiasm, in his opinion, Blair needed the rest more.

He settled on the bed with a book, careful not to disturb his snoozing bedmate. After about ten pages, he leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes, content to relax to the rhythm of Blair's breathing. Who needed meditation? Around eight his internal clock roused him, and he uncovered the slumbering lump beside him. He rested the back of his hand on Blair's cheekbone. To Jim's relief, the skin felt invitingly warm, but not feverish. Blair stirred when he tickled his earlobe.

"Let's get moving, Chief."

Blair stretched, and gave him a lingering kiss. "Do we have to?" he asked, not really meaning it.

"Yes, we do. We know what you're wearing: jeans and appropriate jewelry. Time to break out the earring. Your jeans are in the bathroom, and I left a shirt."

Blair sat up with a big catlike stretch. "You were just on the TV, Jim. How are we going to do this?"

"I have some ideas. I won't be in regular street clothes."

"Oh, really?" Blair crawled like a predator across the bed. "I could help you undress. Fold your shirt or something."

Jim dragged him playfully across the rest of the bed and got him moving toward the stairs. "Quit trying to tempt me. Go, and after you dress, you call Simon. I'll go scrounge through the depths of my closet in private, thank you very much."

"Yeah, yeah," Blair said on his way down the stairs. "And that's lousy cover for making me call. Simon's not going to be happy, and we both know who he's going to yell at, you coward."

Blair made the call, and waited patiently while Simon, as predicted, chewed them out. He donned the jeans that were a constant source of good-natured teasing from Jim. He'd had them for years, washed to buttery softness. Much to his chagrin, these old favorites didn't fit the same way since he'd started hitting the gym as a police officer, and they were embarrassingly tight straight from the dryer. He added the seldom-worn ear and nipple rings, and the silk shirt Jim had chosen, left unbuttoned to the chest. He dampened his hair, letting it dry loose and a little wild.

He was just exiting the bathroom when Jim sauntered down the stairs. "Whoa, where did you get those? I thought I knew all your secrets."

"Left over from my vice days," Jim said with a teasing grin, adjusting the belt on the leather jeans. "Wasn't sure I could still get into them." He examined Blair critically. "Maybe I should pick a different shirt. I'm not as dressed up as you are."

Blair had to smile. Sometimes, Jim didn't seem to realize what clothes did on his body. The fitted knit shirt was simple, but clung in all the right places to attract attention. He was also wearing a black Stetson he'd never noticed in the closet either. "My God, you're fine. Very fine, if you know what I mean. You'll turn heads." 

Jim frowned. "Knock that crap off, Sandburg. I'm the plain Jane leading the peacock, here."

"Sure, Jim, whatever you say," Blair said, stifling a snicker. He'd put money on who would have the busier night.

&&&&&

"My, oh my, what have we here?" Stephens breathed softly. He was officially on his lunch hour but, judging from the view, maybe lunch was going to take a little longer. Ellison and Sandburg had just exited 852 Prospect and they were a sight to behold. They were an item; they had to be! He set down his binoculars and started his own car, intending to follow. What he wouldn't give for some listening equipment to overhear that conversation. 

He followed Ellison's now familiar truck, not daring to draw too close and frantic that he would lose them altogether. The two cops pulled into the parking lot of The Firelight, and Stephens kept driving. He pulled to a stop down the block. This was a popular club, and even though it was early, there was already a line. Based on appearance alone, he wasn't surprised when Ellison and Sandburg were admitted soon after arriving.

Stephens checked his watch. He didn't think he could wait, and he didn't dare try to go into the club to see what was going on. He was fairly sure Ellison would remember his face. Not that the entire exercise was unproductive. Nothing improved a story like a little sexual innuendo. The private life of a public figure was always news. If only he could follow them in there, maybe even get a few pictures.

Reluctantly, he pulled into traffic and headed back to work.

&&&&&

Jim grimaced as the band ended on a particularly strident chord. This excursion had been his idea, but right now, he regretted it. They were on their fourth club, and it was well after midnight. Even with his hearing turned down, the beat of the music was pounding into his head. An occasional aspirin was keeping a headache at bay, but just barely. 

They'd followed the same routine each time, circulating together, then working the room separately. Jim left the dance floor to Blair. His natural exuberance was infectious, and he had no trouble mixing in. Jim worked the periphery, striking up quiet conversations here and there, which was the real objective. When they stopped to compare notes, they were both getting the same message at every club. People were worried, but no one seemed to have any solid information.

Jim caught Blair's eye and moved towards a booth. Blair slid in beside him. "Are you ready to call it a night?" Blair asked.

Jim nodded. "Unless you have some reason to stay." 

Blair shook his head. "Same song, second, third and fourth verse." He gestured towards Jim's glass. "What are you drinking?"

"Officially, seven and seven. Unofficially, mostly soda and ice."

"Let me have a sip. I'm parched." Blair took a long sip and crunched an ice cube. "So how many invitations did you get?" he asked mischievously. "Obviously, the casual shirt was a major turnoff."

Jim glared at him disdainfully. "Very funny, Chief. I'm sure you got more."

"Not hardly. It must be the hat. Anyone set off your radar?"

"Actually, yes. Let's talk outside." They left the club. Jim breathed a sigh of relief in the cold, crisp night air. 

Blair rubbed his fist between Jim's shoulder blades, discretely easing the tense muscles. "Finally got to you, huh?"

Jim nodded, using Blair's touch to reset his senses back to baseline. Even with Blair's skills, it was always harder when he was tired. When they climbed into the truck, he asked Blair to dig out a tissue and an evidence bag. Carefully, he dropped a business card into the plastic and sealed it. Blair examined it in the dim light, squinting to read the penciled writing on the back. 

"It's a phone number," Jim said, realizing Blair's eyes weren't up to the task. 

"Which club? What did he look like?"

"Trinity. Maybe thirty, six foot, built like a lifter."

"Yeah, I remember him. Expensive suit, asked me to dance a couple of times, but didn't make a move."

"Oh, he moves all right, just not with you. I don't know. There was nothing overtly wrong, but something about him made the hair stand up on my neck. I want to run the print, maybe do some checking."

Blair groaned at the thought of a trip into the station. "Can we do it tomorrow? I'm beat."

"Sure, it can wait. Besides, I'd rather wait for the day shift and have Serena look at it anyway." 

Blair seemed relieved. They made the drive home in silence. One good night's sleep and a quick nap wasn't enough to cancel weeks of running on empty. Jim was fighting to stay awake by the time they arrived. He had to rouse Blair to make the short trek inside. 

Blair yawned as Jim threw the deadbolts, locking up for the night. "I wish I had done some of that dancing with you when we had the perfect excuse, but now I'm beyond tired," he mumbled. "Rats." He stumbled towards the stairs.

"Chief?" Jim stood in the kitchen with an apologetic look, holding out a garbage bag. 

"Oh, man. The clothes?"

"Sorry. To me they reek. You don't want the details. I'm sorry."

Blair was already unbuttoning the shirt. "Don't apologize. I'd rather you didn't lie awake all night with a headache." He peeled off the jeans. Jim did the same with his own outfit. He gave Jim an affectionate but brief kiss. "Boxers in the kitchen should be way more inspiring than this. I'll take a quick shower."

"You don't have to do that, Sandburg." Jim grabbed at his retreating partner, but Blair slithered away from his grasp.

"Yes, I do. The hair smells as bad as the clothes. I want to snuggle without choking you."

Jim trailed in his wake. "Want company?" he said hopefully. He hung around the bathroom door, watching Blair adjust the water temperature. 

Blair grinned as he peeled off the last layer of clothing and tossed it at Jim. "Nice thought, but I'm going for the industrial scrub. Crap, I forgot about the shoulder."

"Just go ahead and get it wet. I'll get the first aide stuff." He grabbed Blair's evening meds and two bath sheets, still fluffy and fresh from the epic laundry session. Blair sighed in contentment when he emerged from the steamy shower to a warm cocoon of towels and Jim's full attention. The shoulder still looked ugly, but improved. "There you go, Chief," he said, fastening the last strip of tape. "I'll shower and join you in a sec. Remember to turn off your alarm. We don't have to go in tomorrow."

"There is a God. I'll wait for you."

Jim knew a vain promise when he heard one. His partner was snoring by the time he dropped into bed. So much for their romantic life. Jim spooned behind him, his nose buried in the still-damp hair. Tomorrow would be better. He cautiously wrapped his arms around Blair's chest, and was grateful when the other man didn't wake. He relaxed against Blair's back, avoiding the bandaged shoulder. 

Seven months since Blair had come to his bed, trusting him with everything, more than Jim knew he deserved. Blair was a joyful, enthusiastic lover. Jim treasured every moment, well aware that contentment could be fleeting and fragile.

It pained him that the serenity in their personal life hadn't played out at work. If he took a bump or bruise at work, Blair inevitably took two. If he put in one hundred percent on the job, Blair did one hundred and ten. And Blair was smart, too. Not exactly a surprise, but Sandburg's mind could take a devious turn that could take Jim's breath away. The dock case had only broken because of Blair's ability to draw patterns out of obscurity. 

Not even an optimistic spirit like Sandburg could go forever without some positive feedback. There had to be a way to get beyond Simon's reluctance and Warren's unwillingness to recognize Blair's detective status. 

Sleep came quickly, but uneasily. On this night his dreams were haunted by a handsome face from the club, one that filled him with an unnamed dread.

 **Later that month ñ Chief Warren's Office**

"I'm sorry, sir. I just can't agree. I've done my best to honor your request, but I can't keep Ellison and Sandburg on the sidelines forever." Simon Banks knew frustration was creeping into his voice, and he was probably pressing Warren too hard. 

"Captain, I appreciate your concerns, but this needs to happen." Warren was shuffling papers on his desk. "It's dragging a little longer than anticipated. Keep them off the rotation for another two weeks. Surely you can keep them busy without getting them tied up with a case."

Banks took a sip of coffee. Warren always offered, but the man wouldn't know decent java beans if they smacked him in the face. "I hate to tell you this, but Sandburg is a master at tying up loose ends and generating the required paperwork. The two of them plow through everything I give them in record time. I'm about out of diversions, and Ellison isn't a patient man. They're asking questions I can't answer." _Or are you finally going to tell me what's really going on here? Or are you in the dark, too, which is even more scary to contemplate._

"What about leave, or a seminar?" Warren asked.

"Leave isn't an option. Sandburg doesn't have any. Unless you really want to have a budget item sending them to Disney World, there isn't a seminar either."

Warren's eyes lit up in amused surprise. "There's a law enforcement seminar in Disney World? Damn. Why didn't we go and avoid all this mess?" Warren stood. "Simon, we just can't have Ellison tied up with another major case for another week or two. I don't want you to discuss this with them, either. I leave it in your capable hands."

&&&&&

"Jim, please quit complaining. I don't know what you want." They were toiling up the stairs to Major Crime. Blair had hoped the exercise of parking a few blocks away and walking would burn off some of Jim's pent up energy, but to no avail. During the dock case, they hadn't had a moment for anything else. With the paperwork on that case winding down, both men assumed that their captain would gradually ease them back into new assignments, and their work load would pick up to normal levels. For some inexplicable reason, Simon kept them off the board. New cases kept going to other detectives, to Jim's unending irritation. As the drought continued, the detectives' impatience grew. To keep Jim from going crazy, they filled in on stakeouts, and lent a hand on other cases wherever they could. 

Jim's stormy expression was unchanged. "I want to get back to work. I'm not used to twiddling my fingers half the day." 

"I don't know what to say that I haven't already said. If you don't cut it out, I'm going to volunteer you for crossing guard duty." 

"I'm so sick of that dock case I could scream." 

"Yes, Jim. Do you really think it did any good to ream out the prosecutors yesterday? If they want to consult with us about the case, we go and try to be patient." He held up a hand to cut off Jim's protest. "And what were you thinking, backing Simon into a corner about our assignments like that?"

"I was thinking that maybe he'd answer my question, instead of running off to another meeting with Warren."

"Yeah, Chief Warren. Oh right, his boss. Our boss's boss. Is this how they did it in the military, Jim?"

"There's a reason I left the service, Sandburg. Oh, forget it. I'll go check the board. Maybe a miracle occurred and we actually have something meaningful to do."

Jim arrived at their shared desks, muttering under his breath, to find Blair immersed in a letter. "Hey, Simon's scheduled a meeting with us," Blair murmured as he read. "This is what you get when you yell at your captain. Way to go, Ellison." He handed the single sheet to Jim with a frown. "Does this strike you as a little weird, even if he's unhappy with us? When Simon wants a meeting, he stands at the door and yells. He doesn't write a formal memo."

"It is weird," Jim said, distracted as he read. He looked toward the darkened office. Once again, the captain of Major Crime was absent. "Simon's gone again. Let's ask Rhonda." Jim hung back on Blair's shoulder, gently pushing his partner along in front of him. When it came to schmoozing the staff, Sandburg was the unquestioned master. "Don't look like you're facing a firing squad," Jim whispered, giving his partner a grin of encouragement.

Rhonda was on a call. She held up her hand and smiled, motioning the two men forward. She pulled a sad face as she finished and hung up the phone. "Sorry, guys. They want you back with the lawyers."

"You're kidding," Blair said as his shoulders collapsed. "We were done yesterday! They promised!"

"The DA's want you at nine. You have time to get coffee," Ronda said hopefully.

"Coffee!" Jim snorted. "We don't need coffee. We need a country without extradition. Come on, Chief. I'll spring for a latte or macchiato or whatever you want." He gave Blair the 'get talking' look. "I'll grab your coat."

Blair hesitated a moment. "Rhonda, do you know what this is about?" He handed the note to Rhonda.

She read and shook her head slowly. "Sorry, Blair, I don't." She checked the logbook on her desk. "He has the afternoon blocked out. That usually means a meeting."

"Just seems a little strange, you know?"

Rhonda handed back the letter, her face serious. "What's strange is that he didn't ask me to type it. If I hear anything, I'll let you know." &&&&&

Another tedious day wasted with legal mumbo jumbo. Convoluted nonsense was par for the course with defense attorneys. Both detectives felt the real problems were being caused by the good guys, their own prosecutors. So daunted by the significance of the case, they were being overly cautious, double and triple checking every detail. They forced both detectives to go through a full-scale run through of their testimony ñ twice.

Just when Jim was clearly on the verge of total mutiny, they were mercifully released by mid-afternoon. The bullpen was quiet when they returned to Major Crime. They waited for their scheduled meeting with Simon at four, but the man was still nowhere to be found. Jim was antsy. He kept popping up to do meaningless tasks, or prowled around the bullpen. 

He finally drove Blair to distraction. "Jim, quit fidgeting. Simon will show up sooner or later, and I'm sure he'll assign us something."

"Sooner, I hope. I'm tired of waiting, and pinch hitting for everyone else."

"Jim, just consider it a break, and be grateful. We'll be back to fourteen-hour days before you know it."

The phone rang, and Jim grabbed it. It was Rhonda. "Jim? Captain Banks called to say he's running a little late. He mentioned something about a presentation. He needs you to go up to the City Administrative offices."

Jim sighed. So the damn visit from the Feds had finally reared its ugly head. If only he could think of a decent excuse. It was too late to be unavailable. "Thanks, Rhonda. I'll take care of it."

Blair glanced up from the computer they shared. "What's up?"

"I have to go City Admin," Jim said with a frown. He made no sign of getting up to leave. 

Blair could read the signs. "The Mayor's Office, huh? Jim, they're getting ready for the Homeland Security visit. Come on, man. Did you really think they were going to forget about you? You may as well give up and quit procrastinating, and promise me you won't tilt at windmills."

Jim scowled and was completely unrepentant. "We're a team. Any idiot who works in the department should know that. Not to mention that you can plan some stupid presentation way better than I can."

Blair shook his head in mock despair. "What am I going to do with you? I'm glad you value my PowerPoint skills, but it's so not the point. Life sucks, we don't always get our way, but right now you and I have the things that are really important." He waited until Jim finally met his eyes. "You pay attention to what I tell you," Blair said sternly. "Let sleeping dogs lie."

Jim sulked in his chair and started flipping paper clips at a discarded Styrofoam cup. "I don't care about dogs, sleeping or otherwise," he said sarcastically. Blair rolled his eyes in mute response. "Simon and Warren should know better, and I hate ceremonial crap like this anyway."

Blair surreptitiously ran his sock-covered 

toes along the back of Jim's calf. "I sympathize, but you're the prisoner of ulterior motives. Never stand between an administrative geek and a new source of funding. They'll stab you with an unsharpened pencil."

Jim flipped the next paper clip so it hit his partner in the chest. "You learned these lessons in academia, did you?"

Blair nodded solemnly. "Administrators are a universal constant. Funding turns them all into rabid vampires. If they've promised Warren money for the department, he'll move heaven and earth, which just happens to include you. Go and get it over with. I'll keep busy while you're gone."

Jim groaned and hauled himself out of the chair. "You know, I still haven't heard anything definite from Serena recently about that business card. It didn't have any clear prints, but she was going to keep trying. She told me she'd have to put it on the back burner, but maybe she's had time by now."

"Is that still bothering you?" Blair said, recognizing a delaying tactic when he saw one. "If it will make you feel better, I'll leave a note for Simon and go down and talk to her, if you promise to get out of here." Blair followed Jim out of the bullpen, heading for the stairs while Jim chose the elevator. "Remember to smile pretty for the cameras!" he said with a grin.

Jim immediately bared his teeth in an exaggerated snarl and stepped onto the elevator. Blair laughed halfway to forensics.

&&&&&

Julie McGinn was totally in her element. Managing Mayor Killen through orchestrated public events had become child's play. Co-opting other city officials, without their actual knowledge, now that was a bit more of a challenge.

The day had been well spent. Chief Warren was a good man, without a lot of artifice, and she'd cultivated his grandfatherly instincts. She continued to ruthlessly exploit his concern for adequate funding for 'his people' to her absolute advantage. If he'd known what she really had in mind ñ including whisking Detective Ellison away from the department - he would have been fighting tooth and toenail. For now at least, Warren was doing everything he could to make the Homeland Security site visit a success. 

For his part, Mark Kitsa was doing a superb job of discretely trolling Ellison in front of the federal advance team every chance he got. From a Federal point of view, they couldn't do better for a local liaison. They were practically drooling over Ellison's record and qualifications. 

Her interactions with Simon Banks, Ellison's immediate superior, hadn't been so successful. Damn the man. Her decision to include him in the site visit planning may have been a mistake. She'd assumed that with Warren so enthusiastic, Banks would follow his boss's lead, even if just for the sake of political expediency. Instead, Banks had been relatively uncooperative, invariably lobbying to get Ellison back to work with his partner and the rest of Major Crime, limiting his participation to the times his presence was essential. 

That was not what McGinn had in mind.

The rub seemed to be Ellison's partner. A problem she hadn't anticipated. She was pretty good at reading situations, but this one baffled and worried her. It worked to their advantage to have Ellison rather removed from day-to-day police work. Banks acted like Ellison was joined at the hip with Sandburg, exactly the opposite of what she was trying to achieve. She could sense that without immediate direct intervention on her part, Ellison wouldn't be available when they wanted him.

Police work be damned. The partner needed to be busy somewhere else, preferably buried deep where he wouldn't be a distraction, and Ellison needed a specific assignment that didn't involve Major Crime. Suddenly, the solution dawned on her. 

She could easily justify having Ellison assigned to work on another high profile issue. In fact, she could pitch it to the Chief of Police as a direct request from the mayor. During their break, she'd have another private word with Warren. With a little flirting and some coaxing, she could convince him to work on their behalf. She could tie the whole thing up with a red ribbon and Banks would just have to lump it. 

Formulating how to implement the solution didn't take long. She'd have Warren's commitment to her agenda long before Ellison was called in to participate this afternoon. Even better, none of the principals would know the real score. 

&&&&&

Serena was hard at work, as usual. The curse of forensics was there was never really any downtime. Even without emergencies, a backlog of evidence was perpetually waiting for analysis. She looked up and smiled when Blair entered. "How's my favorite Detective? All I ever get to do lately is hear your voice on the phone." She waved him to a lab stool. "Hey, did I hear right, you got banged up during that smuggling arrest? Something about your shoulder?"

"Remind me never to doubt your jungle drums," Blair said. "I tackled this guy during the arrest and got this monster sliver buried under the skin. It got infected, and you know how Jim is. I got stuck in the ER. What is it with doctors? You go in hurting and they hurt you some more?"

"It's the medical mindset. We're all five year olds trying to avoid what's good for us. Are you here about that card?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I ran some extra tests on the card for prints. I still only got partials. Improved, but still not enough to go searching the data bases. You can tell Jim his radar is pretty good. The other info on the card was phony. The address led to a vacant lot. Your man didn't want to be found."

"Hmm. Suspicious, but not conclusive. And the phone number?"

"It's a cell number from one of those disposable, short-term things. From my end, it's a dead end. I'm going to keep trying whenever I have a chance. There are some new techniques for raising prints that I'm going to experiment with. They take time, but now I'm intrigued."

"Damn. Poor Brown and Rafe. That case is a nightmare."

"What, you were thinking the criminal element was just going to start handing you their name and number so you could stop by and make the arrest?" Serena said with a laugh. 

"We live in hope. Thanks for fiddling with it. I know you never run out of work."

Serena smiled and patted him on the hand. "You get first class service because you're never a jerk and you never waste my time. You apologize when you ask me something extra and say thank you." She added some solvents to a test she was running, and continued to visit. "Stop by again. The latest Journal of Forensic Science had some Anthropology stuff I'd like your opinion on."

Blair smiled. He treasured his relationship with Serena, who from the first day had treated him as a welcomed equal. "You're about the only one around here who can define 'Anthropology', girl. You might not want to let that get out." 

"Will you read it if I send you the article? We could meet for lunch and discuss. I'll buy."

"Be still my heart. Of course I'll read it. What could be better than discussing bones over a salad?" 

Serena pretended to be offended. "Who says it was bones?"

Blair laughed. "Give it up, girl. It's bones." He gave her a wave. "I'll call you next week. That might be a good time." Blair headed back to Major Crime feeling a lot less depressed. Serena reminded him that not everyone treated him as Jim's second-rate shadow.

&&&&&

"So, are we all set for tomorrow?"

 _Dear God. There must be a way out._ Jim kept his mouth shut. This was his second session of being trapped with PR officers from the department and political aides from the mayor's office. Any comment he might have would just prolong the agony. 

It wasn't encouraging to Jim that the people from the PD were playing second string to the Mayor's underlings. Julie McGinn, the mayor's chief of staff, and Mark Kitsa, the communications director, were the ones calling the shots. Kitsa, in particular, annoyed him. The guy looked like he was gloating over a secret every time he spoke to Jim. Sandburg would scold him about being paranoid, but it made Jim suspicious and uneasy.

Simon had made a brief appearance, but after twenty minutes disappeared with Warren. That made Jim uneasy, too. Their meeting with Simon would be postponed again, primarily because Banks couldn't shake lose from the higher ups. Whenever Simon spent more time in meetings than in his office, it typically meant a multitude of bad things. Usually it was budgets. The conspicuous absence of both his captain and Warren made Jim wonder what was up this time.

He stayed long enough to get a copy of the schedule that had been hammered out. He really just wanted to get out of this mare's nest of political nonsense and get back to real work.

&&&&&

Captain Tim Lowell shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry, Banks. I haven't got a clue what Warren wants to see us about."

"Some joint operation?" Simon suggested. 

Lowell chuckled. "I don't think Burglary has ever had a coordinated operation with Major Crime. I couldn't take the stress. You guys get the headlines, but you also get the grief."

"Emphasis on grief. I swear, Warren's had us roped into this Homeland Security thing. I'd be grateful for almost anything else."

The door to Warren's office opened. "Hey, you're both here. Come on in, and I'll try to keep it short."

The two captains filed in. Neither one of them cared to come in to these meetings flatfooted. Forewarned was forearmed. They went through the usual pleasantries and some of the Chief's predictably horrible coffee. Once everyone was seated, Warren got down to business. "We need a little background. Tim, you still having problems with the Weston kid?"

Lowell literally scowled. "I won't lie to you. He's a problem. I stand by what I recommended last week. I know there are reasons not to send him to Patrol, but he should be serving in another department that has more structure. He's just too inexperienced to be working independently as an investigator." He noticed Simon's perplexed expression. "Conrad Weston is the youngest son of the Weston family."

"Of the Weston building and most of downtown?" Simon asked. "Ouch." He meant it. Obviously, Lowell's department was taking it for the team, so to speak.

"Yeah," Lowell said ruefully. "They'd like to keep him from killing himself while he plays out his cop fantasies. I was drafted."

Warren nodded. "Tim, no one appreciates what you've done more than I have, and I'm sure your assessment is correct. The good news is, I think I've found a way to kill two birds with one stone. We ñ that is Banks and I ñ have an ongoing issue with the upcoming Federal visit. It's hard to keep someone like Ellison on the sidelines so he's available when we need him." He handed each man a folder. "I'm temporarily reassigning Sandburg and Ellison. The mayor made a specific request, one that I think we we're obligated to honor, so Ellison is going to work on a community relations assignment. For the duration, we're going to send Sandburg to Burglary, specifically to work with Conrad Weston. Let's see if a specific partner can get him on track." Warren paused, giving his two division commanders time to absorb the information. "I think it addresses both issues quite nicely."

Simon read half a page and broke the silence. "Chief, splitting them up ñ"

"I know, I know. Look, you and I are between a rock and a hard spot. This is a top down situation, and we're going to have to make the best of it. The mayor has made this a formal request. It does address the issue of keeping Ellison with a light load until after the Homeland Security visit."

"Chief, I have to agree with Simon, but for a different reason," Lowell added, clearly upset. "Burglary's a small group. Weston's presence has been rather disruptive. I just can't absorb another marginal performer, no matter what other problems the move is intended to solve."

"Sandburg isn't a marginal performer, Tim," Simon said adamantly. He felt a flash of guilt. Maybe Jim's contentions about Sandburg's profile in the department were more accurate than he'd hoped. "He's an excellent detective. Better than anyone realizes. I don't want him out of Major Crime for any length of time. I promise you, you won't be disappointed in his work."

"Gentlemen, I have to insist. The details are in the files. Simon, break the news to them when you meet this afternoon, as we discussed earlier. You did schedule time with them, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir. This afternoon, as you requested." Simon struggled to keep his anger from erupting.

"Good. Then have everyone in place by tomorrow." Warren checked his watch. "I'm sorry, I have another meeting." He stood, effectively ending their discussion. "This is the best solution, gentlemen. Make it work."

"Yes, sir," the two men answered in chorus.

Simon was half way to Major Crime before it dawned on him that Jim would probably be camped on his front door, waiting for the minute he showed his face. He really didn't want to have a conversation with Ellison and Sandburg right now. Jim's previous assertions rolled over him in a flood. Even with orders from Warren and a plan, the sparks would fly. He would need to be supremely prepared to manage this encounter, and that included managing his own guilt.

What the hell. He objected on principle to ducking his people, but today would be an exception. He had his laptop with him. He'd just call it a day, skip the return to Major Crime and finish at home.

&&&&&

Blair leaned back against Jim's chest, happy to be home. Both men were sprawled on the couch, listening to music and enjoying each other's company. They'd opted for Italian for dinner: Jim's special spaghetti, a killer salad, and French bread you could only get on the west coast. It was nice to just chill out after a frustrating day. They'd never seen Simon, and purposely avoided discussing Jim's meeting with the Mayor's staff. Blair could tell the session with the administration had gone badly. His partner was seriously irritated.

"How's the wine?" Blair asked, taking another sip. He shifted slightly to his side to get a better view of Jim's face. He smiled as Jim rolled the wine across his tongue. Sampling wine was a new mutual hobby. Jim was particularly partial to Oregon Pinot Noir.

"Buttery, with a hint of blackberry."

"You are so full of it," Blair said with a laugh.

"You doubt my sense of taste?" Jim asked. He set his glass on the coffee table and proceeded to tickle Blair's ribs. "I'll teach you."

"Whoa, there, unless you want red wine all over the couch," Blair said, trying to get rid of his own glass and defend himself at the same time. He set the glass on the table and flipped over, so he was sprawled on Jim's stomach. "I don't doubt the taste, just the descriptions."

"Make it worth my while," Jim said, giving Blair a lingering kiss. "You taste like wine. I'm not sure about the blackberry. I'll have to keep sampling."

"You do that." Blair popped a sliver of dark chocolate in Jim's mouth. It was Jim's favorite. Predictably, Jim settled back, letting the confection melt slowly, releasing a symphony of flavors only he could appreciate. Blair unbuttoned Jim's shirt, taking advantage of his partner's stillness, and the access. "You look happy."

"With you, I am happy." Jim hugged him tight for emphasis. "This crap at work ñ"

"Forget it," Blair said, resting his chin on Jim's chest. "This is now. We don't need to ruin the evening with something we have no control over."

"The people on the mayor's staff give me the creeps. Something is up. I just know it." 

"You may be right, but this is all short term. It will be over soon."

"I think I'll be sick tomorrow. Skip the whole thing."

Blair snorted. "You've never skipped anything in your life, and I mean all the way back to kindergarten. Your face would melt. How about we take our wine upstairs, and I'll keep feeding you chocolate until something comes up?" He smirked at his own pathetically bad play on words.

"Well, maybe for the chocolate." Jim tucked a strand of hair behind Blair's ear. "My lover, the lousy poet."

&&&&&

Jim tried not to wince as the cameras flashed. He hated politics, politicians, and stupid, contrived ceremonies, in that order, and wanted to dump this crappy citation into the trash. Instead, he shoved it at Simon, who took it reluctantly. "Can we go have our meeting now?" he muttered in his commander's ear.

Simon tucked the framed certificate under his arm along with his own. "Show a little patience, Ellison. It doesn't hurt to placate the locals. Give me a minute, and stay out of trouble." Jim faded into the wings, and watched as Simon made a few more pleasantries. Banks was good at his job. Running a department like Major Crime required a lot of political savvy, and Simon managed without jeopardizing the real police work. Jim admired that quality in his captain, even when he complained about it.

A minute later, they were headed back to Major Crime. "Where are you going to put your newest award, Detective?" Simon asked jovially.

Jim rolled his eyes. "Toss the paper and use the frame for a drink tray."

"You're really bent out of shape about this, aren't you?"

"You say that like I shouldn't be," Jim said darkly.

"What does Sandburg say?" Simon asked, hoping to find some neutral territory.

"Not much. And that pisses me off, too, if you must know. He doesn't want to make any waves."

"Did you ever consider that he might be right? Let's finish this conversation in my office. Rhonda, see if you can keep things at bay for half an hour or so."

"Certainly, Captain." Rhonda flashed her trademark smile.

Jim followed Simon into his office. Simon settled in one of the side chairs instead of behind his desk. Jim's face had a stormy look. "Look, Jim, I know it seems like forever to you, but we haven't had Sandburg onboard that long yet. He's not exactly under the microscope or anything, but a low profile isn't a bad idea."

"Why?" Jim asked bluntly. "When he does good work, he should get credit."

"Jim, you're being obstinate and dense. Isn't it obvious? Let him quietly build up a track record. Have something to counteract the whole press conference thing. In the long run, it will pay off."

Jim glared in response. "A track record? How's he supposed to do that when everyone all but ignores his contributions? He's fucking invisible. This isn't low profile, it's no profile."

"Don't lose your temper," Simon said sharply, irritated with the profanity in his office. He was trying to hold a neutral line here, but after the session with Lowell and Warren, Jim's words had a ring of truth. He just couldn't fix things all at once. "It's not fair, but he's potentially vulnerable. I want to protect him. I would think you'd feel the same way."

"Okay, sir. You explain to me how this is building up 'protection' for Sandburg, and I'll shut up." 

Simon inwardly blanched. What had Lowell said about taking a marginal performer? Well, he'd corrected him, hadn't he? Spoken right up. But even if Jim had a point, he didn't want to get into it right now. Belatedly, he realized he hadn't responded.

"That's exactly what I thought. You just don't want to admit it," Jim said vehemently. "To my way of thinking, we're just erasing him. We're prolonging his vulnerability, as you call it, by acting like he's not really doing anything. At this rate, what will he have for anyone to make a judgment on?"

"I'm just saying these things take time," Simon answered, still trying to reconcile his position with new realities. "Forcing the issue isn't the answer either."

"Time I can live with. So tell me how Sandburg's better off than he was six months ago. If I pulled his personnel jacket in a year, how would it look better? What exactly is in there that would protect him?

There was an uncomfortable silence. "I'm doing the best I can, Jim," Simon finally said. His tone was grim and tinged with apology.

"All due respect, we're comfortable, but we're not helping Sandburg. Flying under the radar doesn't change attitudes."

Truer words were never spoken, but now was not the time. Simon didn't avoid Jim's gaze, but he shook his head. "Neither does senseless banging on a closed door."

A knock did, in fact, come from the door of Simon's office. The door opened a bit and Blair stuck his head in. "Is this 'our' meeting, or should I come back?"

"We've been waiting on you, Sandburg." Simon gave Jim a stern visual warning. Their earlier conversation was closed, at least as far as Simon was concerned.

It would help if he could start the meeting with something positive. Simon encouraged the pair to review all the varied projects they'd been working on, including their brief undercover foray into the clubs. Jim mentioned the business card, and Blair provided the disappointing update from forensics, along with Serena's assurance that she would keep working on it.

"Based on that, I think it would be worth it for Brown and Rafe to pursue a similar line of investigation," Banks said. "If this is our guy, and he's being this careful, we'll almost have to catch him in the act. Maybe we can pull together some teams to repeat what the two of you started. Good initiative on your part, Jim." He looked up enough to catch a glimpse of Jim's face. "Uh, you too, Sandburg, which brings us to your next assignments. You realize the Homeland Security visit has expanded. I have to tell you, the additional funding for the department would be a blessing."

"Remember what I told you, Jim?" Blair said with a wry grin. "The search for funding knows no obstacles."

"Yeah, yeah. I still think it's more trouble than it's worth." 

Simon went to his desk and quickly sorted through some folders. "Jim, considering your upcoming obligations when the Feds come to town, I'm putting you on some extended community liaison work." He handed Jim a folder. "The department has been getting complaints from proprietors in the International District over the last year. It's hard to tell whether it's random harassment or some kind of an organized shakedown. With all the uproar nationally over immigration, it could be some kind of backlash. It's the kind of assignment that's flexible, and it's officially yours." He handed the file to Jim.

Jim immediately protested. "The tour doesn't start immediately, and I'm only on the hook for a day or so."

"Sorry, Jim. New plans since yesterday. The whole thing has been expanded, and so has your participation. We won't be counting on you fulltime for a couple weeks, at least." Simon studiously ignored Jim and selected another set of folders. "Sandburg, you're going to be loaned out to Burglary. They have a relatively new guy that would benefit from a change in partner. They're expecting you this afternoon, one o'clock sharp. Take the rest of the morning to get up to speed. That will be all, thank you."

Blair nodded and stood up, preparing to leave. Jim was motionless in his chair, his face tense.

"Detective?" Banks said, willing Jim not to make an issue over something he couldn't change. This was Warren's idea, and he didn't have the option to modify it. "That's all." 

Jim still didn't move.

Banks started to lose his temper. "You have something to say, Ellison?"

"I'm wondering why I just got handed a case tailor-made for Sandburg."

Banks' expression was explosive. To Blair's surprise, he didn't yell. "I'm not in the habit of having my people second-guess their assignments. I don't intend to start with you," he said coldly.

Blair watched helplessly. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. For all the world, he wanted to clap a hand over Jim's mouth and drag him from the room. All he could manage was a whisper only his partner could hear, "Jim, don't."

Jim heard him and ignored the plea. "Captain, who's more culturally sensitive? I'd guess that would be the trained Anthropologist. And when I go down into the international district, what's going to happen? Some, maybe most, of these people are recent immigrants. I'm so Anglo-establishment it's pitiful. I walk in and they don't see someone they can trust. They won't talk to me, guaranteed. I couldn't be less suited to this."

"Enough, Detective," Simon said sharply. "Dismissed."

Jim stormed past Blair and out of the office. Blair shifted uncomfortably. "I'll talk to him, sir. You know how Jim is. He's just upset about being put on display."

"It's not what he thinks." Simon's voice was tinged with regret. "I have faith in you, Sandburg. The thing with Homeland Security coming to town isn't being run out of this office, and the Mayor, through Warren, requested specifically that Jim be given the assignment in the International District."

Blair nodded. "Of course he did, and it makes sense. Then he has the luxury of telling members of the International community that he put his best man on it." He fiddled with the folders in his hands. "I'll calm him down."

"You do that, Sandburg. You do that." Simon waited until the door closed behind Sandburg and murmured, "That will be the toughest assignment you'll get."

&&&&&

Jim tossed the folder holding his new case onto his desk. His colleagues had undoubtedly heard the shouting. He could feel the bullpen holding its collective breath. Disgusted, he ignored them and blasted through the main doors with all the force he could muster. He skipped the elevator and took the stairs at a run, anything to burn off adrenaline.

His keys were out, poised to unlock the truck, when he made an abrupt U-turn. If he drove right now, some unsuspecting civilian would have tire treads up his bumper and down the other side. He needed to channel his anger into something other than road rage. He jammed the keys into his jacket pocket and power walked in the direction of the harbor.

Anger surged out in every forceful step. How could Simon play into this crap? He wasn't some helpless pawn! And Sandburg! Why the hell didn't the man stand up for himself? Speak up, demand better treatment. The Blair Sandburg he knew wasn't such a spineless goober. The Mayor, Chief Warren, the Federal pukes ñ how could they let a bunch of worthless idiots screw up their lives?

On about the tenth cycle of those thoughts he'd reached the water. By the twentieth run-through he was breathing a little hard and out of the tourist crush. The tree-filled sanctuary of Bayside Park and Nature Reserve spread before him. Anger was slowly bleeding away, replaced by creeping despair. He veered away from the picnic area and plunged into the deepest part of the reserve.

Aldwin Trail rose sharply under his feet. His mind cleared to satisfying blankness as he double-timed it up the switchbacks. Primordial cedar and fir closed over him, blocking the sun. The undergrowth was thick with sword fern, salmon berry and wood sorrel. His goal was at the end of the hiking trail, three hundred feet above his head. His city shoes kept slipping on the steep terrain, but he struggled on, powering up the slope, relieved to burn off the adrenaline of outrage. At the summit, he broke out of the trees onto the windswept cape. The city seemed a long way off. Winded, he sank onto one of the benches and rested his elbows on his knees. 

_Sandburg doesn't fight it because he bought it as part of the package. He does it for you, because he promised he'd be there for you. Because he loves you._

He watched the waves beat against the rocks below, his rage spent in the frenzy of activity. He was terrified of how this would play out in the long run. As surely as those waves would wear away the rocks below, eventually, despite his intentions, Blair Sandburg was being scraped, pounded and chipped away into a shadow of his true self.

&&&&&

Blair dialed Jim's cell number for the fifth time since their confrontation with Captain Banks. He doubted a phone owned by Jim Ellison would be accidentally turned off or dead. His stubborn partner was probably refusing to answer. 

Damn him. Jerking Simon's chain wasn't going to help. Reluctantly, Blair forced himself to read the case notes he'd been given. The last thing he wanted to do was go to another department unprepared. That was safety mechanism number one. Somewhere between the third and fourth page his attention drifted back to Jim. His partner meant well. He just didn't have the right psychology for the situation. 

Jim Ellison had spent his life as a standout. His home life might have been a disaster, but Jim had excelled at virtually everything he did, the classic All-American kid who got good grades, was a fine athlete and a natural leader. He'd been on the path for success right on through the Army and the police force. He'd never been the short geek, the youngest and smartest in the class, or the only Jewish kid in town. He couldn't relate to the necessity of coming in through the side door. 

You didn't win the battle by whapping people upside the head and demanding acceptance. You were patient. You charmed, if necessary. You made friends where you could, quietly. You made it easy for people to accept you without compromising any important principles. You did fantastic work until it was in everyone's best interest to notice without resentment. Nope. Remote, serious, super-cop Jim Ellison didn't understand that kind of stuff. So what was the short, geeky, Jewish academic going to do to enlighten him?

Blair forced himself back to the file. There didn't seem to be much of a pattern to the break-ins, and it was all pretty minor stuff. The whole thing seemed odd. Officers, especially detectives, didn't get assigned out of their unit unless there was a real need. Something that warranted extra manpower, or specific expertise, not a jumble of minor infractions scattered over a couple of months. If Banks wanted to keep him busy, there still had to be cases in Major Crime he could help out with until Jim was done with all the public relations nonsense.

Another thought chilled him. What if this wasn't a short-term thing? What if he wasn't going to stay in Major Crime? His mouth went dry. That could be it. What if Blair Sandburg moved out, Jim Ellison moved up, or both? Was all this just a courtship, trying to entice Ellison into bigger and better things? Loosen his ties to make the shift easier? Would Simon knowingly go along with something like that? Without telling them what was going on?

Blair looked towards his Captain's office. Through the windows, he could see Simon deeply engaged in a phone conversation. Blair waited for as long as he could, but the opportunity for a private conversation never occurred. The time slipped away. Jim didn't return, and Banks was never available. Reluctantly, Blair gathered his things and headed down to Burglary and his new assignment. 

&&&&&

Jim stared bleakly at the empty desk that greeted him and set his armload of white food bags on the desk. His intentions had been good. To make up for his boorish behavior, he'd taken a little extra time to stop at Sandburg's favorite deli. The delay had cost him. Obviously, Blair had dutifully departed for Burglary and points unknown.

He never should have stalked out in a huff and left his partner to deal with the fallout. He considered the food, but a heavy touch of guilt zapped all desire to eat. The sandwiches could go in the break room fridge and keep for dinner, or even the next day. He reached into the bags and retrieved both cups of coffee from a holder. They'd be long cold before he saw Blair, so he might as well drink them. He labeled the bags with a fat black marker to discourage casual grazing and headed for the break room. He came back with two Hershey bars and sat down with his files and his coffee.

He munched the chocolate bars and started reading. The case, if you could call it that, was a mess. No clear links from one incident to another. Broken windows, spray-painted doors, stolen deliveries, parking lot vandalism, hassling both patrons and proprietors. It was all there. Jim started to make a list of proprietors and addresses. He'd have to start talking to these people, one at a time. If they talked to him, and if they told him the truth, there still might not be anything to it.

He left a note on Blair's desk, just in case he came back to Major Crime. It would make more sense to leave a message on his cell. Remembering that he'd turned his own cell off in his fit of anger, Jim dug his out. "Shit!" he said, reading the list of missed calls from Sandburg. Jim Ellison wins the colossal jerk prize again. Chagrined, he left a text message for his partner to let him know that dinner was covered and to suggest a rendezvous. Hopefully the promise of Cascade's best pastrami on rye would convince Sandburg not to strangle him on sight.

&&&&&

 _Well, Sandburg, this has to be an all-time low, even for you. How did you manage to strand yourself in country club land without a ride, or for that matter, a clue? How could this get any worse?_

Feeling like a total idiot, he watched the plumes from the twin exhausts of his newly-assigned partner's Corvette disappear out of the Cascade Country Club's parking lot. He needed somewhere to decompress before his head exploded. What a totally screwed up afternoon. 

He was upset enough over not seeing Jim after the little scene in Simon's office. His afternoon in Burglary, well, there almost weren't words for that nightmare. Captain Lowell's interchange with him could hardly be called a welcome. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Lowell wasn't pleased with the newest addition to his relatively small division, even on a temporary basis.

He wasn't assigned an area to work in, he wasn't introduced to his new colleagues or the support staff. Instead, he was allotted a chair and told to wait for Conrad Weston, who didn't make an appearance for another hour. His temporary partner seemed extremely vague about the details of their case. At Weston's insistence, they'd driven out to look at some of the crime scenes. Or at least that had been the plan until Conrad had cut short what was clearly a joyride to show off his vehicle, and bailed on him. Lost in the contemplation of his totally screwed-up existence, Blair jumped out of his skin when he heard his name called.

"Oh, sorry, Blair. I didn't mean to startle you." A smiling William Ellison was closing the distance between them. As usual, Jim's father was dressed impeccably, outfitted in slacks and a yellow golf shirt which sported a logo Blair recognized but couldn't name. "Is Jimmy here?"

 _Oh yeah. This is how it gets worse._ What were the chances he'd run into Jim's father, of all people? After Jim's revelation to his father that his work partner was also his life partner, William Ellison had been awkwardly supportive. Blair harbored the personal opinion that, given the opportunity, the man might yearn to strangle him in secret. Not that he was paranoid or anything. He struggled to maintain his composure. "Hi, Mr. Ellison. Uh, no, Jim isn't here," Blair managed to say, wishing he could melt into the sidewalk. Stranded here in the suburbs was bad enough. The cosmic forces must be getting a good laugh out of this one. 

"Well, no problem." Bill gave him an enthusiastic hand shake and pulled him towards the club. "No point in standing out here. Come on inside and we'll wait for him."

"Well, uh ñ I really shouldÖ" Blair started and then gave up. He was already being ushered through the massive double doors into the elegant foyer. What was it about the Ellison men of any generation that put him at an automatic disadvantage? Bill didn't seem to notice his discomfiture.

"Are you on duty? Of course you are." The elder Ellison hailed a young man tending the bar. "Jason, two iced teas, and bring them out on the deck." William escorted him to a quiet table overlooking the pool and the course. Before Blair could say anything, the tea arrived along with a tray of assorted snacks.

"You read my mind, Jason," William said, smiling broadly. "Could you bring us an order of those fried cheese sticks too?" He turned his attention back to Blair. "Jimmy always loved the fried cheese, but of course, it's been years since I got him out here for a round of golf. So, lots of excitement for you two these days. Tell me all about it while we wait."

Blair selected one of the vegetables and took a sip of iced tea, hoping he could come up with some kind of credible escape. "Well, yeah, it was a big case. Always nice when you can close one like that." Blair's mind was racing. How was he going to get out of this? Maybe he could sneak off and call Jim from the restroom or something, assuming Jim had decided to answer his calls.

"Big? It was huge! Not every day you get complements all the way from Washington D.C.," William said. He lowered his voice discretely. "The papers don't mention it, but I know how much you help Jimmy. I'm so proud of both of you. What a team you two make."

There was something about hearing that particular phrase out of Bill's mouth that broke Blair's composure. It showed on his face and he was powerless to stop it.

"Oh." Bill's sunny demeanor clouded. "Something's happened, hasn't it?" he asked quietly. "Is Jimmy all right?"

"Yes, sir, Jim's just fine. Really. It's ñ well Ö"

William Ellison may have been an insensitive clod raising his sons, but he was a perceptive man. The genes that made Jim a superlative interrogator came from somewhere. "He isn't here, is he? I thought the two of you always worked together. What are those idiots down at city hall trying to do, break you two up?" Blair tried for a neutral expression and knew he failed. Jim always accused him of wearing his heart on his sleeve and, unless he was in full obfuscation mode, he knew it was true. Bill shook his head. "It figures that twit of a mayor would come up with something completely stupid."

Blair couldn't help smile. "When you say that, you could be channeling for Jim."

"Well, I should hope so. Jimmy's a good judge of character. Our mayor married into money, plays a great game of golf and has the brains of a chipmunk." He broke off while Jason delivered their cheese sticks, accompanied by marinara and ranch dressing. "Here. Have a cheese stick and tell me exactly what's going on. I've actually become a good listener in my old age."

It was completely disarming. Hungry, discouraged and feeling totally alone, Blair picked up one of the appetizers and spilled. How he and Jim had been assigned to different cases, and what he suspected that might mean. How upset Jim was. How the burglary case was bogus. How his temporary coworker was an air-headed rookie, who had volunteered to drive, only to remember he had an appointment and leave Blair standing on the steps of the Cascade Country Club.

"He left you here?" Bill said, clearly shocked.

"Yeah, I know, it's totally stupid," Blair said. "I was just so shocked and disgusted I let him go just to get rid of him, which is why I need to call Jim and see if he'll come get me." He stared at the table, totally embarrassed at the situation, and having confided in this man he barely knew, a man he'd actually like to impress. "You must think I'm a total loser."

Bill looked at him shrewdly. "You know, once I was in charge of closing a deal and went to the right building in the wrong city. I nearly lost the account. Even the best of us has a day from hell every now and then."

Considering William Ellison's reputation, such a self-effacing statement was the last thing Blair ever expected to hear. "Thank you for saying so, sir."

"Let me set something straight. I messed up with Jimmy when he was a boy. My actions with his senses drove him away and made his life more difficult. I have a great appreciation for what you've done for him, because I had the same opportunities and failed miserably."

"Mr. Ellison, you couldn't have known at the time -"

"It's Bill, and let me finish. I'm no academic, but I understand excellence. I checked you out, and you were, and certainly still are, one of the best and brightest. I also know you lied through your teeth at that press conference. I'm one of the few people who can actually understand the depth of that sacrifice. So this isn't some abstract discussion about internal politics we're having here. This is about some high-placed idiot playing fast and loose with my son's life and safety, and that includes your partnership. Anyone who tries to keep you from Jimmy's side is a problem of the first order. Whatever shortcomings I may have, I don't take kindly to someone endangering my son, or playing false with the tremendous sacrifice you made."

Blair nodded. He was completely at a loss for words. He could never have anticipated this reaction from Jim's father.

"What you've told me stays between us, unless you choose to share it with my son. I'm no fool. Jimmy won't want me involved in this, and I accept that. However, I've been around this town a long time, and I know people you and Jimmy don't. If I learn something, I'll pass it along to you, and you can act on it accordingly. If necessary, I can still make some calls that might make a difference. Is that acceptable?"

"Yes, sir. That's very kind of you," Blair said.

"So you finish eating, and I'll drop you wherever you need to go. Those are great cheese sticks, aren't they?"

&&&&&

Jim hauled his tired body into the truck, disgusted that the fatigue was a product of frustration rather than activity. What a wasted day. He'd been on the verge of going out on his new case when he'd been called upstairs - again. Warren's office wanted to go through more logistics. God almighty, how did people do that ceremonial crap for a living? Who really cared who stood where, and next to whom?

He had no idea where Sandburg was, but the thought of waiting at the station made him nauseous. He decided to head home even though it was a bit early. He could just barely justify the early departure because he needed to pick up his dress uniform from the cleaners, and they closed promptly at 5:30. If Sandburg needed a ride, he could always come back and get him. 

So across town he drove to the only drycleaner in Cascade that specialized in dress uniforms. He'd learned the hard way that not every establishment had the expertise. A good dress uniform was expensive enough not to take any chances. Like any quality service, the place was busy, and Jim avoided waiting in drive-through lines whenever possible. Without fail, the exhaust fumes got to him. He parked and waited inside, dialing down to minimize the odors from the dry cleaning process. He caught a glimpse of white hair as the proprietor hurried about the back room. Mr. Ho·ng had arrived in Cascade as a refugee in the late 1960's and knew Jim well enough to call him by name. Why not use the opportunity? This business wasnít technically in the International District, but Mr. Ho·ng might be aware of gossip from within the community.

Jim made it to the counter for his turn. Before he asked for his clothing, Mr. Ho·ng noticed him and greeted him.

"Mr. Ho·ng, could I speak with you? Privately?"

The man looked a bit surprised, but promptly waved a younger man to wait on customers up front. He invited Jim back to his tiny office. Jim explained his problem. Mr. Ho·ng looked thoughtful, and considered his question for a moment.

"I have no problems here, Detective."

"If you did, I would hope you would call me." Jim waited politely. Instinct told him Mr. Ho·ng knew something. This wasn't an interrogation; the man would either tell him or not.

"When I first come to this country, after the war, things were very bad. Our young people, very angry. We had gangs, much trouble. Not so much now." Jim nodded. "I hear things. Problems, people unhappy. Not gangs, not our own people."

"Can you tell me about these problems?"

Mr. Ho·ng looked troubled. "When I come here, I learn English, become citizen. We Vietnamese at home, but all my family learn English. My children go to American school, American church. Go to college. We part of this country. Proud to be here." 

Jim waited, nodding. There had to be a reason he was hearing this. Mr. Ho·ng continued. "Some people come now, not try to be American. Keep too many old ways. After nine-eleven many people angry, very scared. Not happy with strangers. Bad things happen."

"Do you know any of these people, Mr. Ho·ng?"

"No. Not Vietnamese. This neighborhood, no problems. Just hear stories."

Jim wrote his home and cell number on business card and handed it to Mr. Ho·ng. "I would like to talk with these people. If you can help me, please call. Thank you for your time."

Jim collected his uniform and started home. The assignment might be window dressing, but his gut told him the case was legit. More than ever he regretted his attitude and the time he'd wasted.

&&&&&

The smell of cornbread greeted him as he opened the door. "Smells good, Chief."

"Hey, Jim." Blair was just taking a pan out of the oven. He'd changed into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, topped with a flannel rolled to the elbows. Until recently, that combo had practically been the Sandburg uniform. "Dinner's almost ready."

Jim hung his dress blues in the downstairs closet and sniffed the air again. "Did you make chili?"

"Not enough time for that. I thawed some we had frozen. I made cornbread and added honey, for a twist. I thought we were due for some comfort food."

Jim washed at the kitchen sink, watching hungrily as Blair cut the bread into squares. He snagged a piece, blew on it, and took a bite. "Yumm. I'm starved," he said, mumbling around a full mouth.

"Then grab us both a beer and some silverware. I'll serve." Blair brought two steaming bowls of chili to the table along with grated cheese, chopped green onion and sour cream. "I got your message. Sorry I missed you today."

"I owe you an apology for that, Sandburg. I bought lunch as a peace offering." He shrugged. "We can eat it tomorrow, okay?"

"I knew where you were coming from," Blair said, joining him at the table, accepting Jim's welcoming hug. "You might want to say something to Simon."

Jim had the decency to look guilty. "Not too smart to yell at our best ally, huh?"

"Downright stupid, Jim, but if you don't mind, I'd rather eat and talk later. I had a shit day, and I'm hoping simple pleasures will put me in a better mood."

"I can relate." Jim chose another piece of cornbread. When he picked up a knife, he did a double-take. "We're using real butter?"

"Cholesterol be damned," Blair said grimly. "Like I said, it was a bad day."

Jim was smart enough to take the hint and took the opportunity to create a small lake of melting butter on his cornbread. The rest of the conversation centered on the weather, the Jags and Sandburg's beloved but perpetually limping Volvo.

"So you never actually got down to the International District?" Blair asked, sipping his tea.

"No, and as stupid as it is for me to work this without you, now I feel guilty. Mr. Ho·ng makes me think there's more to this than a few broken windows. I should have gotten after it instead of pouting over how stupid it was."

"He didn't exactly give you a lot to go on, Jim."

"Other than intimate that there really is something going on, which is more than I knew before. Mr. Ho·ng's known my family since I was a kid. My dad never sent his suits or button-downs to anyone else. When his kids were in high school, they used to make deliveries to our house, and Sally would send them away with cookies or some kind of treat for the family. So if he'll barely talk to me, what chance do I have of getting anyone actually involved to talk?"

"But he did talk to you. Maybe he'll make a call, or put the word out that you'll do right by people in the community." Blair gave him a mischievous grin. "You could always have Sally bake cookies. Her food would tempt hardened criminals."

"Very funny, Sandburg. I can add insult to injury by capping all this crap with a trip to my Dad's place." He caught the slightest twitch flicker across Blair's teasing smile. "What? What haven't you told me?"

Now it was Blair's turn to look guilty. "I talked to your dad today. He gave me a ride home."

"My father gave you a ride?" Jim asked, absolutely incredulous. "How the hell did that happen?" He did his second double-take of the evening. "Why did you need a ride?"

"Short or long version? The short version is my associate from burglary ditched me in the middle of upper-class, white-bread suburbia and I ran into your dad. I wasn't planning on letting him know I was stranded, but that's the way it worked out. He offered me a ride and I didn't turn it down."

"I don't even know where to begin, the guy from burglary, my dad, or the white-bread suburbia comment."

"Welcome to the club. It was a bizarre day. I didn't know you liked cheese sticks as a kid. You never order them with me."

Jim's eyes went wide. "You were at the Club? With my dad? And cheese sticks?"

Blair gave him the look of the truly busted. "Like I said, it was bizarre."

Jim scrubbed his face with both hands. "I can't believe this. Okay, I guess I want the long version."

"Well, Lowell hates me on sight, and the case I'm supposed to work on is bogus. There are a few actual home invasions and a boatload of minor complaints from the same general area, all dumped in a file. No case notes, no evidence files. Pretty much a list of addresses and dates, which are totally useless. My assigned partner in Burglary is practically a rookie who looks like he just walked out of the frat house and drives a Corvette on the job. I know you mock the Volvo, but a Corvette?" 

"You're kidding. Why him?"

"I wish I was. The whole thing is weird, but what choice do I have? He says we're supposed to go talk to some of the homeowners. I really think he just wanted to show off his car. We drive around the neighborhood for like ñ ten minutes ñ and he pulls into the Cascade Country Club and says he's dropping me off, he has an appointment he forgot. So there I am, like a damn POW behind enemy lines, and your dad pops up behind me. Next thing I know I'm in the members' lounge, drinking iced tea, hearing how Jimmy always loved the cheese sticks and how long it's been since you came down to golf with him."

"Oh. My. God."

"So, Jim, be my hero and don't bitch too much about _your_ day. By the way, your dad said the mayor has the brains of a chipmunk."

Jim shook his head slowly and took a huge bite of cornbread. "Why am I not surprised? My old man always was a shrewd judge of character. I think I need another beer."

&&&&&

Blair, sporting a bathrobe over his boxers, was just finishing the eggs when Jim emerged from the bathroom. He was wearing the slacks to his suit and a white t-shirt. He was also holding a tissue to his chin.

"Thanks for making breakfast, Sandburg. The day started out with a bad omen. I cut myself shaving."

"You what? You don't ever cut yourself. What happened to that sentinel sense of touch?" Blair scrutinized his partner with a worried look. "Are your senses wigging out?"

"No. I just wasn't paying attention. Can't imagine why," he added sarcastically and pulled the tissue away. "Has it stopped bleeding?"

Blair set a plate in front of Jim and looked closely. "It's okay. So now eat. Toast is on its way."

"The festivities start at ten," Jim said grimly. "A scintillating guided tour around Cascade's points of vulnerability with a bunch of fools."

"And which fools would that be?" Blair asked, bringing the toast.

"Chief Warren, the Mayor, Fire Chief Taylor, all their underlings, more underlings from the state and, God help us all, the Feds. Who, no doubt, have more fools than all the other fools put together."

"Okay, I accept that as a group of fools. Play nicely with the other children, Jim."

"Yeah, I know. I'll wear my suit, and be on my best behavior. I just want it over and done."

"Think about it, Jim. Who wants more attention than the Mayor? If you play it right, you can just melt into the background."

"From your mouth to God's ear. Are you riding with me?"

"After yesterday? Not a chance. I'm going to talk sweetly to the Volvo and drive myself. I should buy a bicycle and take it, just in case. I'll go out and make sure it starts up before you leave."

"If it doesn't, take the truck. I'll be stuck with the entourage all through dinner. I can take a cab home, or draft someone from Patrol to drop me here." He tapped the plate with his fork. "Good eggs. I like the cheese."

"Yeah, well enjoy your saturated fats while it lasts. I only put the cheese in to improve your mood for a stressful day. How many head of black angus do you think will be sacrificed to feed the bunch today?"

"How judgmental, Sandburg," Jim said, savoring the cheddar on the eggs. "We might be eating some of the Northwest's famous seafood."

"With that group, while on expense accounts? I don't think so. I'm thinking steaks the size of Frisbees and Australian lobster tail, flown in fresh. Whoa, look at the time. We need to get moving."

The Volvo started. Blair waved as Jim, wearing his perfectly tailored suit and regimental tie, drove off in his 'classic' truck, his dress uniform and spit-shined shoes in a garment bag. He smiled, enjoying the paradox that was Jim Ellison. Even though he wasn't due at the station until noon, Blair left immediately. He had some research to do before he spent another day in paradise with his Corvette-driving associate.

&&&&&

Blair was hunched over the computer in Serena's back office. He smiled as the owner slipped through the door and shut it behind her, coming to sit beside him.

"So what are you fishing for so early in the morning, my friend?"

"A little clandestine research. I got temporarily transferred from Major Crime yesterday. My new partner stranded me yesterday, and I don't want to walk in blind today. For starters, I want to know how a rookie is working plain clothes instead of walking a beat."

Serena sighed, content to sip her coffee and watch. "Sometimes I think I made a mistake showing you the ins and outs of the PD databanks."

Blair's eyes never left the screen. "You didn't tell me anything I couldn't figure out on my own. You just let me get down to business sooner. Have I ever betrayed your trust?"

"Not yet, but there's always a first time. The least you can do is give me a name."

"Conrad Weston."

"Stop! Don't hit another key."

Blair's head snapped around. "What?"

"You kill me," Serena said, her amusement obvious. "How could you not know this? You usually have great connections."

Blair's face showed his apprehension. "Tell me."

"Duh, Blair. Weston? Starting with Weston Construction and half a dozen other businesses in Cascade? The main branch of First National is in the Weston Building."

"Oh, crap. I'm slipping. I didn't connect it."

"The older two brothers are smart guys and work in the business. I went to school with the middle brother and I talked to him at my last class reunion. The family knows little Conrad isn't the brightest bulb, so they're guiding his career. The plan was to install Conrad in the paving company, but he wanted to play cops and robbers, with the emphasis on 'play'. The family probably asked some higher-up to stash Conrad to keep him from getting himself or anyone else hurt while he grows out of it. He's not known for sticking with anything very long. I'm surprised he got through the Academy."

Blair recalled his foray into Burglary. Weston hadn't seemed connected with anyone in his department. His desk had been basically empty. The other guys had ignored him. "You think they've been told to just keep him busy and out of the way?"

"I'm sure of it, but I could make a call and check," Serena said, biting her lip. "I know Captain Lowell's Administrative Assistant pretty well."

"Well, shit. So what am I doing there?" The second the words came out of his mouth, Blair regretted giving voice to his fears in Serena's hearing. 

He could tell she'd read his thoughts.

&&&&&

The breeze off the water was brisk. Jim wished he'd taken the time to bring his overcoat. After all the weeks he and Sandburg had spent down here on the docks, he should have remembered how chilly it could get.

So far, he'd just been part of the entourage. The introductions alone had taken an hour. No doubt Sandburg would have had observations about establishing status in a supposedly classless society. He consciously pushed thoughts of his partner aside. Dwelling on an already sore point wouldn't improve his temper.

Actually, the Assistant Secretary from Homeland Security seemed like a pretty decent guy. He couldn't say the same for the rest of the motley crew. No local agency was willing to miss the rare opportunity to air their particular situation and needs. Along with everyone else, he'd suffered through one boring presentation after another. Most of the time, he managed to stand off to the side, an unwilling witness to elbow-rubbing and blatant ass-kissing amongst the lackeys. Jim figured the Secretary must be a fine actor, because he'd managed to appear interested and engaged throughout the interminable morning.

So now they were at the docks and Jim knew his moment was coming. As soon as the local Coast Guard people finished up, Detective Ellison would be front and center, expounding on his own marvelousness. Not. 

Surreptitiously, Jim reviewed the three by five card the mayor's staff had pressed upon him. Everyone, from the Mayor on down, had 'talking point' cards written up by the Mayor's staff. The whole concept of talking points irritated Jim immensely. It was bad enough to have to be here without being coached like a performing monkey.

He folded the card in half and stuffed it into his pocket. He knew what he wanted to say: that the Coast Guard and Customs people were excellent, but understaffed and overworked, immigration was a joke, and the average police officer didn't have the training or expertise to be of much help. They could take the rest of the talking points andÖwell, it wouldn't be smart to give voice to that particular thought.

Sure enough, Mayor Killen launched into another spiel. That woman, Julie McGinn, invariably hovered at his elbow. Jim suspected she did a lot of Killen's thinking for him. How had Sandburg quoted his dad? The brains of a chipmunk? Ellison senior certainly got that right. 

Sandburg. Always back to Sandburg. Somehow Jim knew last night hadn't been a full disclosure. What was it his partner didn't want to tell him?

&&&&&

"Sandburg? Is this how they run things in Major Crime?"

Blair looked up and tried to smooth the frustration out of his face. "Good morning, Captain Lowell. Uh, actually, I'm waiting for Conrad or tech services, whichever shows up first. Conrad's computer is apparently under some kind of screen lock, and tech services haven't been able to get past it remotely. As soon as I can get in, I have some database searches in mind that might help with our case." He'd talked through most of the computer work with Serena, but for form's sake, he needed to repeat some of the work on the Burglary system.

Lowell looked annoyed, although he had to realize that issues Weston's computer weren't his fault. "Well, find something to do in the meantime. I don't appreciate inefficiency in my department, no matter what you're used to up there with Banks."

Blair sputtered as the man swept by into his office. _Maybe a computer or a desk of my own would contribute to efficiency. Enough already._

After another twenty minutes he lost all patience and stormed down to Forensics. Serena went a bit wide eyed, but Blair halted her questions with two raised hands. "I'm okay. I just need to get out of here. You still have the business card?"

"The one from the nightclub case? Yeah, I was going to try some more tests, remember? Try to get a better print."

"Put it in a sealed evidence bag and hand it over."

"Blair, maybe you should calm down a bit. I can -"

"Serena, that idiot Weston isn't here, and I can't get into his computer because he put an unauthorized screen lock on it. My new Captain just chewed my ass for not being efficient." He repeated the short version of his morning's struggle in Burglary. "Anyway, I've had it. I'm going to do some police work this morning, what's left of it. So, hand over the card."

Serena got out the evidence bag, and then pulled it back when Blair reached for it. "Come see me before you go back to Burglary. Call Weston, and leave him a message that you'll meet him after lunch."

"Why?"

"Because you're my friend. Because you're going to bring lunch for both of us. Because I can get into my computer just fine. Tell me what you had in mind."

Blair described what he had in mind. Serena smiled appreciatively. "You devious so-and-so. They may have given you a sow's ear, but you and I are going to turn it into a silk purse. See you in a couple of hours." 

She handed over that card.

Still fuming, Blair drove to Trinity. Rafe and Brown were still spinning their wheels on this case, and no one had followed up on this admittedly flimsy lead. With nothing better to do, why not waste a little time on an actual case, one that he had some control over? Using the GPS on his phone and the yellow pages, he spiraled out from Trinity, hitting every business that did business cards. It was a wild leap of faith, but hey, he had nothing to lose. He called in every twenty minutes or so, in the vain hope that Weston would make an appearance. 

It took major sweet-talking, combined with his badge, to convince firms to search their orders for a match. He hit pay dirt at a FedEx half a block away.

"Yeah, that's the name," the clerk said with a nod. "The order was for six different cards, all for the minimum amount. Twenty bucks will get you two hundred and fifty cards. I think he said something about a computer startup."

"I need a copy of the order," Blair said. "Did you wait on him? Did he pay with a credit card, or leave any other information?"

"Paid in cash, so that's no help. I didn't take the order, but I remember the pick up. The cards had been misfiled, and it took a few minutes to find them. He was pretty pissed off, and not very nice about it."

"Could you identify him? Maybe work with an artist?" Blair said hopefully.

The clerk shook his head. "Wish I could, but I see hundreds of people a week. This order doesn't stand out. Although..." He thought for a minute. "He came in with a fancy coffee. I joshed him about it, trying to lighten the moment. It didn't help. I remember it came from Clarkbucks around the corner."

"Clarkbucks?"

The clerk shrugged with a grin. "Yeah. It's just a local place. The owner is Clark Randle. Apparently, the big guys don't care. I guess it works."

"Thanks. How do I get there?"

"Two blocks down, then turn left."

Gathering up the potential evidence, Blair jogged over to the coffee shop. He tried Weston's number again, this time getting a busy signal. He left a voice message. He was barely twenty feet from the shop's door when the man from the club walked out of the coffee shop, drink in hand. Blair ducked behind the corner of the building to avoid being seen. 

He called Henri. Better a long shot than no shot at all.

&&&&&

With the remains of their lunch strewn on the table, Ron Stephens finally moved on to the questions he was interested in. These grad students would talk to anyone if you threw a decent meal into the mix. "So you think Blair got crosswise with Rainier because of his involvement with Cascade PD?"

"Well, yeah." Katie Franklin flipped a long braid over her shoulder. "He was always the shining star of the TAs. When I was just starting, he was the one everybody went to for help. He really knew how to prep for a course; outlines, study guides, quizzes, grading rubrics."

"So he was generous with his time?" Stephens asked.

"I'd say so. He was the ultimate multitasker. If he was busy, somehow he'd just squeeze you in. I always thought he must not get much sleep." She took a long sip on her Coke, drawing the liquid down to the ice cubes. "Then that last year or so, it just seemed like he couldn't keep up. I know I covered class for him a couple of times when he couldn't get back from racing around with that cop. Couple times he was in the hospital, but hey, everybody gets sick now and then. The gossip around the department was that the Chancellor really hassled him, even when the reason he missed was totally legit."

"Other people have said it was the PD hours that really got him in trouble," Stephens said, fishing for more.

She shrugged. "He didn't ever talk about it, but it wasn't like we hung around together, other than general grad student stuff."

"You're sure?"

"Look, he was a nice guy, but I don't know every detail about his life." She shifted in her seat uneasily. "Exactly why do you want to know this stuff about Blair? Maybe I should just give him a call."

Stephens closed his notebook, jumping into yet another set of total lies to cover his real interests. The last thing he wanted was to have either Ellison or Sandburg twig to his recent activities. So far he'd been lucky here in University egghead land, and he didn't want to blow it. People generally liked Sandburg, and felt badly about his departure. That didn't stop them from dropping a few unintentionally damning tidbits now and then.

In the end, he beat a hasty retreat. He'd already called in twice to excuse his absence from his desk. He should have been writing afternoon copy. No doubt his editor, Belling, was foaming at the mouth. As if the usual local drivel wouldn't wait. The story was within his grasp. If he needed to take a few risks to pull it off, so be it. The payoff would be worth it. His days typing meaningless copy were almost over.

He stopped at McDonalds, whipped out his laptop and added the new information into his article. It was taking shape. In a pinch, he could run with this draft, but it could use a little more polishing. Tonight he could speed write the local stories he was assigned, and concentrate on fine-tuning the Sandburg piece. The timing was important. The homeland security powwow was today. Ellison would be back in the spotlight. It was the perfect time to get attention for his work. He just had to navigate around fuddy-duddy Belling.

&&&&&

Serena took another bite of the lunch Blair had ordered. He'd already filled her in on the unlikely results from his morning's foray.

"Brown's going to follow up?" she asked.

"He was ecstatic. They're all over it."

"And Weston?"

"I managed to talk to him on the phone. I don't get it. Lowell chews my ass, and lets him wander in whenever." Blair shook his head. "I'm ever amazed at power and politics in action. Not that it was any different at the University."

"We don't know the whole story."

"At least the morning was more productive than sitting around waiting for him." Blair took another helping of Pad Thai. "I hate to monopolize your time like this. I didn't expect you to actually run the searches. You don't have time for that."

"Hey, you brought food." Serena continued to eat, but was intent on the computer screen in front of her. "Besides, you had all the sneaky search ideas yesterday. I just went ahead and did what we already had in mind. I love data base technology." She clicked a few more keys. "There we go. What do you think?"

Blair read over her shoulder. "I think you're a true friend." Blair kept eating noodles as he read. "Picture looks entirely different if you look back a few years. Why didn't the Burglary guys check this?"

"You want the truth? Captain Lowell may growl about efficiency, but he's actually anti-technology. He doesn't really insist his people do all the appropriate coding. This came from my evidence files, because we code for the data base religiously."

Blair studied the screen intently, then looked at the case summaries. "These four are junk. These three vandalism cases might be linked. Out of the home invasions, if you ignore the other stuff, we have a nice little cluster here. Always entry through the back door, always in summer, always plenty of jewelry. Hmmm."

"What are you thinking?" Serena asked, watching him closely. "I'd feel better about breaking every rule in the book if I knew we made some progress."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but don't most juvenile-related crimes occur in May and June, when school gets out?"

"Statistically, yes. You have an idea, don't you?" She smiled. "I'm a co-conspirator. Tell me."

"I want to run it by Jim, just to confirm my hunch. He grew up in that part of Cascade, you know."

"So you're going to make me wait?"

"Afraid so, but I'll sacrifice the rest of the spring rolls because you are the best." Blair gathered up the files and gave his plotter a brilliant smile. "Thanks for your help."

"I double checked. Your email address in Burglary is active now. I'll email the search codes up. You can run it from there almost instantly." She grinned. "Lay down a nice trail of productive work."

"Thanks to you, my partner in crime. Excuse me while I figure out how I'm going to get some work out of my pseudo-partner before he has a chance to abandon me again."

&&&&&

It was official. In the world according to Jim, this nightmare of a day was never going to end.

The late-afternoon reception was in full swing. His dress blues might just as well been a suit of armor. Ahead of him lay another hour of shameless political maneuvering among the hors d'oeuvres, to be followed by dinner, more formal ceremony, and concluding with a few 'short remarks' that would rival the reading of Gone With the Wind. Until all that was over, there was no window of escape. Slipping through the crowd to the farthest corner, Jim checked his phone, hoping for a text message from Sandburg. There were two, the last telling him that his partner wanted to talk to him about a case, but had wrapped up the day and gone for pizza.

Insanely jealous, Jim was about to text back when a voice behind him interrupted. He slipped the phone into his pocket and turned to answer. "Yes, I'm Detective Ellison."

The man was unknown to him. By habit, Jim automatically noted the details: six foot, auburn hair cut close, startling green eyes and a touch of southern in his voice. "I wanted to introduce myself. Bruce Weatherly. I'm attached to the Assistant Secretary's party."

Jim sighed inwardly while shaking hands. At one time, his father must have trained him for cocktail party small talk, but he detested this kind of thing. Where was Sandburg when he needed him? He forced a smile. "Nice to meet you. Have you been to the Northwest before, or is this your first visit?"

"First time, I'm afraid. Beautiful part of the country. I was assigned to review your case. I doubt anyone here has a greater appreciation for the skills you bring to the table. You've had a remarkable career."

Jim's warning bells were all going off. "Reviewing my case? You mean the smuggling case?"

"Sounds a little too law enforcement, doesn't it? Actually, the Secretary is interested in you personally." Weatherly extended his card. "Your mayor has sung your praises, but I'm sure you know that. I would have visited with you earlier, but the mayor's office conveyed your willingness. I expect you'll be hearing from us in the near future." He took Jim's elbow. "Actually, there are some people I'd really like you to meet."

&&&&&

Blair swallowed another mouthful of pizza. With Jim occupied for the evening, he really had nothing to do other than fret about his day. In an eight hour shift, between late arrival, coffee, internet surfing, personal calls, a long lunch and picking up his dry cleaning, Conrad Weston worked about an hour and a half. Blair was used to the pressure-cooker pace of Major Crime. Even with the explanation of family connections, Blair was shocked at his so-called partner's position within the PD. Conrad was flighty, irresponsible, and acknowledged few expectations. 

He'd done his best to explain the printouts of the database search and the coding problem. Using the computer analysis, the impossible, ill-defined case seemed pretty much clearer. Blair felt obligated to bring Weston into the mix. As Jim and the others in Major Crime had drummed into his head, that's what partners did. Conrad seemed to have trouble following the whole concept. He had no grasp of investigative principles and even less mental discipline. In a repeat of the previous day's pattern, he kept excusing himself on any number of unrelated tasks and errands.

During one of several late-afternoon disappearances, Blair slipped up to Major Crime. Rafe and Henri were off and running with the coffee shop lead. Taggart was in court with Connor. Blair's spirits sank even lower. He could have done with a few minutes of contact with his colleagues in Major Crime.

It was a lot easier to use the computer he and Jim shared than try to get anything done in Burglary. He spent thirty intense minutes at the keyboard, writing a summary of the case so far along with supporting data. At that point, he knew he was pushing his luck. The longer he stayed, the greater the chance Simon would show up and ream him out over not committing to his current assignment. 

To his disappointment, Jim never checked in. He still wanted Jim's opinion, and it was bad form to remove files from the building without a compelling reason. Relying on Rhonda's good graces, he managed to make a private copy of the case file to bring home. Hopefully, Jim wouldn't be too tired to look at it. He hustled back to Burglary, only to find out that Conrad Weston had departed early for another mystery appointment. Blair snorted in disgust at that revelation. He checked in with Captain Lowell, who couldn't have cared less, and took off. Too depressed to think about cooking, he stopped off for pizza.

After two slices, he lost interest in the pizza. Eating alone didn't have much appeal, and he felt nauseous. He knew it was just stress dampening his appetite, and gave up. He wrapped up the remaining pizza. Jim tended to burn off a lot of calories when he was stuck in a stressful situation. A late night pizza snack with his partner might be just the way to help Jim unwind from a day in the spotlight. Not that Jim would consider pizza in bed, but hey, a guy could dream.

Blair puttered around, made some tea, and settled on the couch to watch the news. All three local channels highlighted extensive coverage of the Homeland Security visit. Jim was present in most of the shots, and looked predictably professional and miserable. Poor guy. No wonder Jim hadn't returned any of his messages. Sick of watching, he channel surfed for something better, only to be interrupted by the phone.

 _"Blair? Bill Ellison. Is Jimmy home, or is he still being paraded around by those clowns?"_

"Hello, Mr. Ellison. Let me guess. You're watching the news?"

 _"What a bunch of idiots."_

"Jim would heartily agree. Would you like me to have him call you? It might be late by the time he gets in."

 _"No, no. I just wanted to check on him. Can I ask - all those lights and noise ñ do they bother him?"_

"Sometimes, but he usually handles it reasonably well."

 _"You mean he handles it well when you're there. The whole thing just makes my blood boil. It's an outrage. Well, just tell him his pop is rooting for his side, okay."_

"I'll do that."

Blair was about to extend thanks for the previous day's courtesies when he realized the call was over. Obviously, Jim inherited his terse phone style directly from a fraternal dominant gene. Blair set the receiver down thoughtfully. William Ellison's manners might have been brusque, but he worried about his boy. If only he'd done a better job of communicating that when he'd parented his sons under his own roof.

He must have dozed off. The next call had him diving across the couch, chasing the receiver he'd knocked over with his groggy reach. It took a moment for him to realize the soft, heavily accented voice was none other than Mr. Ho·ng. Blair hastily checked the time. It was still way too early for Jim to be finished with the mucky mucks and their formal banquet. After his comments yesterday, no way would Jim want to let this go.

Blair left a text message for Jim, and scribbled down a note with the address and phone number, just in case Jim got home without checking his phone. After leaving a note for Jim, he hit the stairs at a dead run.

&&&&&

Ron Stephens shifted uneasily in his chair. Damn his abominable luck. Belling had nailed him. The sneaky old bastard had pulled the draft copy right off the printer before he could retrieve it. If he'd just been a little more aware, he wouldn't been in this mess. 

After the initial spate of yelling, Ken Neff, the Northwest Editor, had joined the party, which was double bad luck. He'd been sitting in this tiny, stuffy office like a bug under a microscope, waiting as they read his copy. Belling looked over his old fashioned reading glasses. "So this is the reason you can't do the job we've actually hired you to do?" 

"Hey, I do my job just fine. In fact ñ" "In fact, you call in late for your shift on the skimpiest of excuses. You've been turning in copy that a decent high school kid wouldn't claim, and you don't rewrite when changes are requested." Stephens stared defiantly but didn't answer. Belling sniffed his disgust. "I've been doing this a long time. Did you really think I didn't notice?"

Stephens was ready to blast back his response, and shut his mouth with a snap. Right now wasn't the time for open debate with his nemesis. The only thing he cared about was getting his story in. The story would get him out from under Belling's finger for good. Surely they could appreciate what he'd done, even if it was outside his official duties. 

He waited some more. Neff finally put his copy on the desk. "Tell me about your sources." He waved a hand toward the sheets he'd been reading. "You crosscheck any of this with multiple attributions?"

"I've talked to a lot of people," Stephens said, painfully aware of his own vagary.

"Let's see." Neff went back to browsing the printout. "We have no reaction from either Sandburg or Ellison. We have no official reaction from the Cascade PD or the Mayor's office. Did Sandburg discuss his medical history with you? Was he a source?"

"I've seen him," Stephens said. _From a distance. With his partner threatening to toss me out of the restaurant._

"I take that as a 'no'. Who stole the medical records for you?" Neff asked disdainfully.

 _Okay, so maybe the best defense was a little offense._ "You're pretty quick to throw accusations around. Funny way for an editor to work."

Neff's eyes flashed with anger. "Some of us actually have journalistic ethics. The Times is not a scandal rag, and that's what you have here, as far as I can tell. A pack of unsubstantiated innuendo and half truth presented as fact. Not to mention that these days we don't speculate on what adults do in their private life." 

"Have you ever actually met either of these men?" Belling demanded to know. "You're new in this town. Do you have any idea who you are dealing with?"

 _Time for a non-denial denial._ "I think it's a story that the golden boy of the Cascade PD undoubtedly put a civilian at risk, that he did it repeatedly, and that the whole city bureaucracy was complicit while he was doing it. I think it's a story that Ellison's chosen gofer miraculously appeared on the city payroll after being kicked out of the university, and that said gofer's fitness is questionable. Or maybe the two of you are just afraid to question the status quo."

Belling and Neff exchanged a long look. "I'll tell you what we're afraid of," Neff said. "That poorly-written, poorly-researched crap will get thrown back in our face, along with a multitude of legal and ethical repercussions. That you've cobbled together unrelated junk strictly for your own purposes, hoping to vault out of a job you think is beneath you."

Stephens lost his temper. He waved a hand toward Belling dismissively. "It's not my fault you have a city editor more interested in little kids' ballgames than news."

Neff took one last look at the printout and seemed to come to a decision. "I want to see you, in my office, at nine tomorrow morning. I want you to show up with the sources for each of the allegations, and how you've crosschecked them. That's all for now." Both men stood, clearly dismissing him from their presence. Stephens felt their eyes follow him all the way across the newsroom.

Alone in the stairwell, he ducked into the second floor. Perched on a stack of boxes in an out of the way storeroom, he replayed the interchange in his memory. Belling hated his guts. The early morning meeting was just a charade. Neff was going to string the whole thing out long enough to fire him with cause. The two of them had probably started to cut the paperwork the minute he was out the door. His computer access would be cancelled the minute they could make the call to the tech staff.

Why wait for the inevitable? Stephens fingered the memory stick in his pocket. The story wasn't polished, but it would do. The paper had a procedure for adding last minute stories with a special editorial password. Too bad for Belling. The idiot had previously kept the password and a few notes about the procedure taped under his keyboard. When it became an inside joke, he'd emphatically announced that he'd cleaned up his act. Stephens had found the new hiding place, the bottom of his paperweight, on a midnight foray into his boss's office. 

Neff and Belling would bitch at each other for awhile, and then they'd leave. He could wait until right before deadline, sneak back in, use the editorial opt-out and post the story. Unequivocal grounds for being fired, but they were going to fire him anyway. In all honesty, he didn't have anything to lose. 

He smiled. Publicity sold papers, and even those conservative editors cared about circulation. By nine tomorrow morning, they'd be begging him to stay. They'd have to start treating him with the respect and status he deserved.

&&&&&

Jim practically dove into the dark sanctuary of the truck. Without a doubt, something was up. Too many leading questions, little innuendos, and plenty of knowing looks that he wasn't part of. The Mayor and his band of merry miscreants brightened up like they'd won the trifecta every time they saw him. What 'willingness' had they supposedly communicated to the Feds? 

He's tried to ask Chief Warren. Warren, in his best I'm-the-host persona, kept sidestepping. Come to think of it, it was almost as if he wasn't quite sure, but had suspicions. Maybe Blair was right. When funding was at stake, even the most honorable of leaders could look the other way. Dollars to doughnuts Kitsa and McGinn were up to their elbows in some scheme. Jim fantasized for a moment about a darkened interrogation room and a free hand. Not going to happen, but he was so tired of this political shit.

Safe in the driver's seat, he leaned his head back. What a mess. Sandburg was stuck with this ridiculous assignment, and his own next few days had nothing to look forward to except more interruptions with the State and Federal delegations. Not to mention that his actual assigned case, which he was neglecting, was something Blair could do a lot better. It had to be some kind of a smokescreen, but a screen for what?

He pulled out his phone and checked it. Damn, how had he missed so many messages? He knew the answer. Tonight's setting had been a recipe for a migraine unless he turned his hearing and other senses down. He scrolled through the list from Sandburg. By the time he finished the list, he was irate. Tires screeched as he barreled out of the parking lot, intent on getting across town to the address in Blair's message as quickly as possible. 

&&&&&

Mr. Ho·ng greeted him warmly, and brushed aside all his apologies. "Your friend, Detective Sandburg, has been most helpful. Come this way." He followed Mr. Ho·ng to the rear of the building, a community center sponsored by a church. The dimly-lit room was packed with people. Following Blair's nonverbal cues, he accepted tea and nodded solemnly through a multitude of introductions. He hoped the damn dress uniform wouldn't be too intimidating, but he hadn't had time to change. 

He paused. Some individuals in the group were seated next to a younger person who was handling translation. It took a while for the buzz of multiple languages to quiet after each statement. Well, he'd spent enough time with the Chopec to understand how to behave with a group of elders. "I'm grateful so many were willing to share your thoughts. You are valued members of this community." He nodded to Blair with a grateful smile. "Chief, why don't you bring me up to speed?"

&&&&&

Ron Stephens emerged from his late night stealth attack on the Cascade Times, flushed with victory. He'd battled his nerves and waited until the last possible moment before uploading his article. Just to make sure, he'd sent the file from Belling's computer, which had been a huge risk. One side benefit of working the late shift was that he knew everyone's routine, and picked the moment when the late reporters made their run for coffee and a bite to eat. The follow-up email to the pressroom, from Belling's own email account, was a stroke of genius. The pressroom supervisor had emailed right back, bitching about the late timing, but at least he'd headed off any actual phone calls that would have blown the whole deal.

He sat in his forlorn, elderly car, shivering in the cold. His hands were shaking ñ just a little extra adrenalin. He thought about his next move. Certainly he'd check the paper in the first early delivery, just to make sure. The little coffee place down from his apartment got theirs around five. He could catch a few hours of sleep. 

He snorted, and started the car. The engine caught on the third try. After Belling and Neff came crawling back, the first thing he'd do would be to dump this piece of junk for a better vehicle - a substantially better vehicle. He really was too wired to sleep, and his rundown apartment was another thing he'd be replacing soon. He splurged on a Starbucks triple shot in the dark and a lemon pound cake, his ultimate splurge, which blew the last cash he had in his wallet, leaving only enough change for the paper he intended to buy. 

Without really planning it, he guided his sputtering vehicle to the spot he'd selected to watch 852 Prospect. The third floor was dark, which was no surprise, considering the time. He ran the pathetic heater for a few extra minutes and snuggled into his jacket, sipped his coffee, and let his mind drift. Despite the espresso, his day was catching up to him. Mentally, he composed answers to the interview questions he'd no doubt be answering tomorrow. Or was it today already?

He jerked to alertness. Two vehicles flooded the car with light as they passed. Both pulled in to park at 852. Shit. Ellison and Sandburg in the flesh. As they passed under the streetlight, he realized that Sandburg was in jeans, but Ellison was in dress blues. He sputtered when Ellison suddenly turned and stared right towards the car. He took a couple steps his direction. Stephens fumbled frantically to find his keys. 

At what seemed the last possible moment, Sandburg grabbed him by the arm, talking a mile a minute. Apparently that was enough to distract Ellison. The taller man shrugged and headed inside the building with his partner.

Breathing a bit heavily, Stephens got his car running, and cruised a couple of blocks before hitting his lights. Damn, even from a distance that guy was scary. His flights of fancy about sitting on some talk show opposite Ellison and having the upper hand? Not a chance.

Maybe an anonymous cheap hotel would be a good investment on his credit card.

&&&&&

"You want some pizza, Jim? It would just take a minute to zap it."

"What kind? Please tell me it's not artichoke avocado or some damn thing. I've had enough foo-foo food for the rest of my life." 

"The mayor's hors d'oeuvres not to your liking?" Blair sighed. "Mushrooms and olives, but I had them put pepperoni on half, as usual."

Jim grinned, grateful to finally pull off his dress blues. "A little midnight snack wouldn't be bad." He looked at the clock and grimaced. "Well, maybe post-midnight, but still, not bad."

Blair tossed the pizza into the microwave and leaned across the island. "What? They didn't have enough surf and turf to stuff you for days?"

"Political crap takes a lot of energy. At least I can sleep in and arrive late. I have another command performance in the Mayor's office at ten-thirty. I may be paranoid, but something is up with those people."

"In a general sense? Well, not here and not now. You're all mine for the moment." Blair snagged two plates and the platter of pizza and joined Jim at the table. "At least we can both sleep in. I'm a non-person to Captain Lowell, and Conrad doesn't have work on his day planner until midday at the earliest."

"I swear, Chief, after that's done, I'm out of it. No more."

"Pushed all your buttons, I take it," Blair said, nibbling on his own slice. "More like scared the shit out of me." He tore off a bite of pizza like a lion ripping into a gazelle.

Blair frowned at the obvious aggravation. "Excuse me? The guy who hangs onto helicopters is spooked by a bunch of desk jockeys?"

"Desk jockeys with an agenda." Jim said, mumbling around his pizza. He wolfed down the rest of the slice, tossed the crust onto his plate in disgust and grabbed another. "Just a guess, but I suspect the Chipmunk Brain and his crew think they can get mileage out of me, and more than just another photo op."

"He what?" Blair's stomach flipped. Could his worst fears be true?

"Some high-up Fed cornered me tonight, talking about how I'd be hearing from them. He acted like I would be expecting it. So someone's playing fast and lose. Killen probably thinks he can stick me in some stupid liaison post where he can parade me around for the cameras. It was like one long job interview for something, but I didn't have the script. Not gonna happen." He looked up in time to see Blair try unsuccessfully to wipe the horror off his face. "What?"

Blair set his pizza down in mid-slice, but tried to recover. "It's late, Jim. Let it go for now."

"No," Jim said emphatically. "You tell me right now. If necessary, I'll hold you over the balcony and shake it out of you."

"You would not. Finish your pizza and let's go to bed. Bed can be a lot more interesting than beating this situation to death."

Jim grabbed Blair's arm to keep him from leaving the table. "Screw the time. Tell me. You know something." He pulled Blair onto his lap, with his legs straddling Jim's hips.

Blair wound an arm around his neck. "I used to be able to fool you better than this. I must be losing my touch."

"The downside of sleeping together." Jim grabbed Blair's other hand and laced their fingers. "Not that there really is any downside to loving you. Talk to me."

Blair kissed the knuckle of Jim's hand and spilled all his suspicions, the little hints Serena had uncovered, the odd arrangements in Burglary and his socially well-connected partner. "I know, Jim. I sound like an insecure junior high kid, worrying about whether I get to sit at the 'cool kids' table."

"No, you sound like a smart investigator." He slammed a fist down on the table. "I am not going to sit around and let some idiot, or group of idiots, manipulate our futures. I'm going to blow Simon's ears off, much less Warren, and the Mayor can, well, he canÖ"

"Maybe your dad had it right all along," Blair said ruefully.

"My dad?" 

"He called during the evening news, all ticked off on your behalf. Our behalf, I guess, although I still find that hard to believe."

Jim pulled his lapful of Blair closer. "Hey, you got the cheese sticks. What more proof do you want?"

Blair happily burrowed into that embrace. "So, I'm not at the PD 'cool' table, but I am a member of the Ellison Cheese Stick Society. In any case, he's convinced they're trying to split us up, and to my unending surprise, he's not happy about it."

"You didn't tell me that before," Jim said, his voice soft and serious. 

Blair shrugged. "I'm sorry, Jim. Your dad's been great, but I'm having trouble seeing him as a big supporter."

"Even with the cheese sticks?" Jim said in teasing reproach.

"Even then. I'm still half-sure he hates me." Blair managed a grin. "The way your dad sounded on the phone, he was ready to take the mayor to task in person."

Jim had to chuckle. "Oh, that's just the icing on the cake, although after my dad got done with him, he'd be looking to hide on a nice desert island. Someday I'll tell you the story about my dad and my eighth grade history teacher. A take-no-prisoners moment. Don't worry, Chief. As of tomorrowÖ" He glanced at the clock. "Correction, today, this comes to a halt. Let's go to bed."

Blair did exactly that, and Jim hit the shower. The water sluiced away the annoying smells of the evening, but not his apprehensions. Sandburg had tried to brush it off with humor, but their situation had been building for a long time. He'd protested on his partner's behalf, but not consistently or effectively. 

What actually worried him the most was his father's reaction. Despite their differences, Jim had complete respect for William Ellison's business acumen. Part of that success was a killer instinct towards internal threat. He'd squashed or outmaneuvered many a rival in a long career. To use a military analogy, if the scout told you hostiles were over the next hill, you ignored the warning at your own peril.

Sandburg pounded on the door and pulled him out of his reverie. "Jim! Dry off and dress! They need us at the station."

&&&&&

Mayor Killen added scotch to three glasses. Julie McGinn and Mark Kitsa joined him in the toast. 

"They're going to go for it. I'm sure of it. The day came off without a hitch. Ellison is so damned impressive, in spite of himself."

Kitsa frowned. "You know, Boss, I hate to be the fly in the ointment, but I'm still not sure getting Ellison to take the job is a done deal. Warren's going to have a fit when he finds out what we've been promising."

"Then we make sure he doesn't know he's been orchestrated. If it comes down to losing the Homeland Security office, he'll defer to the interests of the department." Killen snorted contemptuously. "And as for Ellison, he's a city employee. He'll do what he's told. You've isolated the partner, like we discussed."

McGinn nodded. "I convinced Warren to send him to burglary with Frank Weston's youngest. I think we can keep him out of the picture."

"Hey, it's worked so far. We've kept little Conrad out of harm's way, and more importantly, Weston senior is still writing generous checks to the campaign. It will work fine for Sandburg. Ellison will see where his best interests lie." Killen exuded confidence. "Let's call it a night."

McGinn smiled at the bottom of her glass. She agreed with her boss, but not for the same reasons. Killen thought everything was oh, so simple. He never appreciated the planning and maneuvering such a success took. 

But then again, that's why he needed her.

&&&&&

The deserted streets were a blessing. "I'm so tired I could drive into a semi and not know it," Jim groused. "Run this whole thing by me one more time."

"Henri and Rafe got a name from the coffee shop lead. They followed him tonight, nailed him roughing someone up behind one of the clubs and pulled him in. The DA's being a little timid. They want our ID to shore up their position, and get the DA to move. They're afraid if the creep is released without getting him charged, he'll disappear."

"Which is why they don't want to wait until morning." Jim sighed. "Okay, I can see that."

Jim's resigned cooperation was short-lived. Three minutes after their arrival in the bullpen, he was livid. "He wants us to what? Weíre police officers. We take a look, identify and that's it."

"Jim, man, I'm with you," Henri said. "It's insulting, but I want to charge this guy. The DA is the one who's jumpy. Nothing had gone right on this case since we got it. If you want to yell at the guy, just do it after we get the charges filed, okay?"

"Jim, don't hassle Henri. If the DA wants a lineup, we do a lineup." Blair was slumped in Rafe's desk chair, chin in hand. "I need coffee. Someone get me coffee."

"I'm on it," Rafe said. Jim caught his elbow and shook his head. "Coffee now and we'll never get any sleep. How long before you're set up?"

"Another ten minutes or so," Henri said. "I'm really sorry about this, you guys. This is a big case for us."

"Not your fault. Look, I'll go first. Chief, go crash on Simon's couch. In the time it takes me to go through this charade, you can get a decent nap."

"Jim, I'm fine." Blair sat up straight to confirm the statement.

"I'd jump at the chance, but I'm too ticked off. You're the voice of reason in the partnership, so you get to snooze. You can drive home, okay?"

Of course, it took longer than anticipated to round up appropriate candidates for a lineup. Jim fumed for close to an hour before being escorted into the lineup area. He reserved an especially evil glare for the guy's defense lawyer and the DA. He crossed his arms and watched the six men file in. He waited a few moments for form's sake.

"No doubt. Number three." He turned all his attention to the perp's counsel. "The guy gave me a business card with a dead end number. The lead detectives can tell you how that led to tonight's arrest. I can guarantee the partials on that card are going to match your client's."

"So you say," the lawyer said dismissively. "Mix 'em up and see if your partner picks out the same guy. Detective Brown, I want measures taken to ensure this man doesn't tip his partner."

"Oh, you are a real piece of work," Jim snarled. "I'll stay right here where you can watch me."

Another ten minutes and Blair repeated the entire procedure with the same results. The four members of Major Crime collectively breathed a sigh of relief when the DA finally uttered the words, "Charge him. Aggravated sexual assault. We'll go for the maximum."

Sandburg had the last word. His rumpled and obviously exhausted demeanor added emphasis to his simple words. "Your client was a predator for a long time. Tomorrow my colleagues are going to run a parade of his near misses through this same lineup, and plenty of them are going to put the finger on your guy. Add that to our undercover testimony, and all the evidence we're going to start accumulating. You might start thinking about a plea before we realize exactly how pissed off we are about being dragged in here in the middle of the night."

&&&&&

As was his usual routine, Patrick Belling was in his robe, waiting for the paper, sipping coffee. In his mind, the job was never fully complete until he read the edition himself. Draining the mug, he wandered back to the kitchen for a second cup. Dang delivery kid should know better than make a late delivery to an editor. On second thought, the kid probably didn't know who, or what, an editor was. He frowned. Come to think of it, the kid was in company with Ron Stephens, who also didn't understand who and what an editor was.

Damn arrogant so-and-so. Twenty years as editor of the Times, and he'd never had an employee as intransigent or subversive. At least Neff agreed with him. As he completed that thought, the paper thumped against his front door. He settled in his morning ritual: his favorite chair, coffee at hand, along with a notebook to jot down any thoughts he might have. Ron Stephens would be shocked to find out how carefully he read everything in the copy he was responsible for. 

All was normal routine, at least until he hit the Northwest section. Belling swore like the old sailor he actually was, and headed for the phone. God Almighty, he'd strangle Stephens with his bare hands.

&&&&&

Simon Banks also rose early. Daryl had spent the night, but was headed off to an early class at Rainier. He'd heard his son's alarm go off well before his own. Simon stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel and shrouded in steam. "Hey, Daryl! Will you stick one of the frozen breakfast things in the microwave for me? I'll be down in a minute."

"Uh, Dad?" Daryl was standing in the bedroom doorway with a folded newspaper hanging from one hand.

Simon tried to fight down a round of exasperation and failed. "Daryl! I love having you stay, but how many times have I asked you NOT to tear up the paper to find the sports."

"I think you'd better read this, Dad." Daryl held the paper out tentatively. "And I'm not talking about the sports section."

&&&&&

Oh God, no. No. No. No.

Jim Ellison groaned. Whoever was at his door had best be announcing nuclear war. He seriously considered pulling his piece and dispatching the intruder. Sandburg was still dead to the world, and one very agitated individual was on his doorstep.

Any shred of patience disappeared. He took the stairs two at a time and jerked the door open with a snarl, ready to do battle.

WHAP.

His father's squashed copy of the Cascade Times vibrated on his chest. Jim barely had time to step back out of William Ellison's path as he stormed through the door.

"We'll sue, Jimmy! Heads will roll. There are laws in this country, you know!"

William whirled on his heel and stared at his son. "Well, don't just stand there! Get dressed! I've already called my lawyer."

&&&&&

Joel Taggart spewed orange juice all over the second paragraph.

Henri Brown and Rafe, wearily coming off a long night, were virtually tackled by the incoming day shift full of questions. Bewildered, both men headed back up to the bullpen.

Rhonda heard it when the story was picked up on the local radio news. In a fit of outrage, she immediately called and cancelled her subscription to the Times.

Megan Connor read the story during her morning commute, and nearly choked on her croissant. Not one to waste time commiserating, she hit Major Crime before anyone else and immediately pulled every scrap of information generated on one Ron Stephens since the day he was born. May he ever rue the day.

Mark Kitsa nearly fell out of bed searching for the phone. He answered it to the sound of Julie screaming in his ear. She read the entire article to him over the phone, while he swore in counterpoint.

For Chief Warren, the headline was enough. Over the edge of his paper, he asked his wife how she felt about moving their retirement date up. In fact, how did tomorrow sound? Or maybe later this afternoon?

His wife didn't answer immediately. After forty-plus years of marriage, she didn't need the details. She could guess what was coming. When the Mayor's Office came up on the caller ID, she just patted his hand and poured his coffee into a travel mug.

&&&&&

"Okay, tell me one more time how you think this happened." Rick Strebkin, managing editor of the Cascade Times gestured toward his two editors across the table from him. 

Neff answered first. "Rick, we cornered the Stephens last night. We told him to be here today with adequate sourcing before we'd touch the story. Not that we had any intention of running the story as-is. We set up a meeting for this morning, isolated his computer and told him to leave the building."

"It's my fault," Belling said. "I lost my temper. He must have figured I was going to fire him anyway, which just happens to be true. Why didn't I can his ass weeks ago? I just wanted to make sure there was plenty of justifiable cause."

"That still doesn't explain how the story ran above the fold in the Northwest section," Strebkin said angrily. "Tom, what's your take on this?"

Tom Kelly, the paper's IT director looked worried. "The internal diagnostics say the story came through Belling's computer, and we know he didn't file it." 

Belling was nearly shaking in anger. "I sure as hell didn't file it!" he barked.

"Correct me if I'm wrong. Don't we have some sort of backup confirmation procedure?" Strebkin asked. 

"I already checked," Kelly said. "The pressroom did their job. They emailed Belling to double-check. Stephens was ballsy enough confirm from Pat's computer. He either hacked the system completely or stole the appropriate passwords and sat right there at the desktop. Sorry, Pat. How careful are you with your passwords now? Tell me they're not still under your keyboard."

"No." 

An embarrassing silence ensued. Neff cast a pitying glance at his old friend. "Where did you put them?" he asked knowingly.

"Ah, hell. I wrote it on the paperweight I got from my grandson. Who looks under a painted rock, anyway?"

Strebkin made an effort to stay calm. "Even if he got the password, how did he know how to get the story inserted? We don't exactly advertise that. When did we last do a late file on a story?" Strebkin asked.

"Last December. The night the two firefighters died," Neff said. "It was chaos. Now that I think about it, I'd swear Stephens was working the desk that night. He could have seen enough. If he snooped around a bit ñ well, yeah, it's possible."

Strebkin sighed. "So we probably know how. Do we know why?"

Both editors nodded. "Overinflated ego," Neff stated flatly. "He hasn't been our most successful hire. At this point, I'm sure his references were inflated so his previous employers could be rid of him. He had problems early on, and we demoted him not long after he arrived."

"Why didn't we dump him back then?" Strebkin asked.

Belling shrugged, clearly distressed. "Hell, he'd just moved from the east coast to take the job. I wanted to give him a decent chance. The short version is, he wanted out of the routine grunt work, but he didn't have the skill, the judgment, or the ethics for features. Especially the ethics." 

"The guy's a classic slacker, Rick," Neff added. "Pat and I discussed the situation several times. I thought he'd benefit from the structure Pat would be willing to give him. We kept thinking with supervision he'd come around."

"Stephens did a radio interview by phone this morning," Strebkin said. Shock registered around the room. "I know this because I had both Ellisons and a lawyer already in my office earlier this morning. Not the way I wanted to start the morning. I havenít returned calls from the Mayor's office and the Cascade PD. Tell me where we are, people. If we don't believe the story, we need to issue a retraction."

Neff and Belling exchanged glances. With a nod, Belling answered the question. "The attributions are vague, to put it charitably. On the other hand, at this moment, I can't retrace his steps and give you an assessment of whether some of the accusations are valid or not. My gut feeling is most of it is out there." 

"So we should deny it?" Strebkin asked.

"In my opinion, if the sources were legit, he would have defended it to us this morning," Neff said. "Honestly, considering Ellison's record and service, we wouldn't have touched it without a lot of soul searching and decent confirmation. At a minimum, the story doesn't meet our journalistic standards. We can say that without reservation."

"I agree," Belling said. "I don't think we want to stake our reputation on this. And I don't care if Stephens is the second coming of Bob Woodward. I don't want him in my newsroom."

Strebkin knew he'd heard enough. "Tom, the network is your responsibility. For now, close off all outside access. I want every password changed before the day is out, and I mean every single one of them. Neff, see what you can do about contacting our friends on the broadcast side. Tell them the story was filed without editorial approval and we have our doubts. Let's keep this from getting worse. Then start drafting a statement to issue today, if necessary, and run in tomorrow's edition. If this is as bad as we think, an item in the corrections column won't cut it." He stood, shrugging into his leather coat. "Belling, see personnel and sever our relationship with the man. Talk to legal and see what other steps are appropriate. I want clear separation as soon as possible."

"You're leaving?" Neff asked.

"I'm going to Cascade PD, specifically Major Crime," Strebkin said. "I hope they don't shoot me on sight."

&&&&&

Blair sought refuge in the back room of their favorite coffee shop. The co-owner, Jenny, was a friend from his Rainier days, and was more than happy to shield him from prying eyes. They were due for a command performance in Simon's office, but Jim was going to meet him here first. They wanted to have this conversation in private. William Ellison's presence in the loft, although well-intentioned, inhibited a frank exchange. Neither one of them wanted to face Simon, Warren, and all the rest without some kind of a unified front.

God, what a mess. Since William's early morning wakeup call, Blair had read the article so many times he'd nearly committed it to memory. Ninety-five percent of it was total crap. They shouldn't have to answer wild accusations. They'd done nothing wrong. When he was a civilian observer, he'd filed every waiver imaginable. Nothing was done under the table. He'd gone to the Academy before joining the force, and checked all the boxes. Gone to the detested range and actually excelled with the firearms. Run the miles, the obstacle course, the physical defense, every last bit. Simon was scrupulous with his evaluations. Their personal relationship should be that, personal.

Buried in all the other crazy stuff was the speculation about their relationship, and that was the five percent that chilled him to the core. Neither he nor Jim wanted to lie outright. They were lovers, but to acknowledge that openly would end badly. The inevitable result would be new partners at a minimum, and one or both of them reassigned or resigning. Jim wasn't totally safe as a sentinel operating with a different partner, which, in the long run, was how they got here in the first place. 

No matter what they said, they would put Simon in an untenable position. Too many secrets, kept for too long.

Tears pricked at the edges of Blair's eyes. Anger, sadness, fear, regret ñ a tangled soup of emotion. In their mutual happiness, it had been easy to ignore the fragility of their situation. Now the price for love would become a lot more painful. A nagging little voice in his head wondered if Jim would decide it wasn't worth it. They could deny the relationship. He could move out of the loft, or slip out of Jim's life altogether.

He felt Jim before he heard him. Sturdy, capable hands gripped his shoulders. Blair leaned his head gratefully back into Jim's sheltering presence. "I'm glad you're here."

"Sorry to ditch you like that." Jim sat next to him, grabbing Blair's nearest hand in his own. "Jenny promised she'd keep everybody out. She's a good friend. We have some privacy."

"God, Jim, I'm sorry. Sorry for everything."

"Why should you be sorry? We got ambushed. I'm sorry I left you, but Ö" Blair swallowed hard. "I was a little surprised."

"A little hurt, Chief? It's not what you must be thinking. Just something that occurred to me last night. That if my dad was seeing villains in the corner, he might be right. For once, I thought it might be worth it to pay attention." Jim made sure Blair was looking at him. "It killed me to go without you, but I'm glad I did. Interesting visit at the newspaper, I must say. Not that I said much."

"Your dad?"

"He was in rare form. I thought it would be a waste of time, but the old man proved me wrong. Something's definitely up. Media live for a good controversy, but the managing editor was far from combative. If anything, he was evasive. He sure didn't pound on his desk and shout, 'We stand behind our reporters', or any of the usual crap." 

"I would have expected him to say exactly that. Freedom of the press and all that."

"Surprised me, too, and he wasn't as calm as he tried act. Heart rate was all over; if he'd been a suspect I'd be thinking guilty without a doubt."

"Jim, what's going on here?"

My best guess? A perfect storm. Something is going on at work, probably orchestrated above Simon's, and maybe Warren's, head. A simultaneous hatchet job in the media is a double lightning strike. Pure coincidence. Rare, but it happens."

Blair's cell phone rang. He checked the number without answering. "What are we going to do, Jim?"

"We stay out of my dad's way, and let him wreak whatever havoc he has in mind. I shudder to speculate. I found out he and Killen's father-in-law play golf together."

"The father-in-law that got him elected?"

"That would be the one. You think Naomi is bad. My father is a force of nature right now."

Blair looked horrified. "That comparison to my mother is the scariest thing you've said all day." 

"Well, we let that play out. It's not our territory. Otherwise, we provide explanations to most of the allegations slung around. You signed every waiver in the book when you were an observer. There was no cover-up."

"That wasn't all that the article said," Blair said softly.

"I know," Jim said, squeezing his hand for emphasis. "You aced the Academy, Chief. Your scores are great. Your casework is great. Anyone wants chapter and verse, we can give it."

"You know the part that really worries me. We were essentially outed." Blair struggled to say the words. "Jim ñ I ñ"

"Don't, Blair. Just don't. We have a perfectly reasonable explanation for living together. Anything else on that front, we don't have to answer." 

"And work? They're going to put Simon in a vise."

"It's not going to get that far. Let's just say that our career as mindless puppets is coming to a screeching halt." He stood up, drawing Blair with him. "Walk in with your head high, Chief. Like you keep saying, I love you, you love me. You've got to trust me on this. Swapping that for a paycheck isn't gonna happen."

&&&&&

Simon Banks' office was crammed with outraged detectives when they arrived. Simon was on the phone, but their colleagues left no doubt of their support. The group waited in restless quiet. "Yes, Chief Warren. Yes, I understand. Yes, sir. I'm sure they're on their way in. We'll be there shortly." 

Simon hung up the phone in disgust. "Not good. The mayor is screaming. Chief Warren wants to release a definitive statement and calm the situation down. Jim, you and I are wanted upstairs. Now."

Blair firmly clapped a hand on Jim's elbow, stifling his partner's furious response. Joel mercifully took the lead. "Just exactly what kind of a statement does Warren want, Simon?"

"Look, I appreciate that you're all concerned with this, but it's not a topic for group consideration." Simon's voice was firm, but he was clearly plying for Taggart's support. "Joel, you've served as a captain. You understand the situation."

Taggart folded his arms across his chest. "Allow me to translate. What they have in mind is a lot closer to 'we're investigating the allegations' than 'these allegations are baseless and we unequivocally stand behind our officers'. How close am I?" An angry murmur from the assemblage accompanied his statement. "Am I the only one who realizes there's perfectly good explanations for this nonsense? And that maybe we should be shouting those at the top of our lungs."

"Why is anyone paying attention to this guy?" Rafe asked. He was leafing through the pages of information Megan had left on his desk. "He's a third-stringer. He's never filed a major story. Here. Look." He held out an enlarged DMV photo. "Anybody recognize this guy? Seen him around?"

Jim intercepted the picture. "Wait a minute. After the dock case." He held the sheet out to Blair. "Remember the guy who was bugging us at the restaurant? The one who kept pressing for a feature?"

"That's the guy," Blair said quietly after studying the photo. He handed it on to his captain. "So it's sour grapes." 

"This is the same guy," Simon agreed. 

"What did he do, stalk us?" Blair snapped his fingers. "I'll lay you odds he was hanging around the night Jim and I hit those clubs for the night club case. He just made up what we wouldn't give him and more."

"Surely that has to throw a different light on things, Simon," Taggart said. "Warren needs to stand firm."

"It really doesn't matter." Simon stabbed his hand angrily towards Jim. "Let's go."

"No."

Simon, halfway to his office door, spun on his heel. He broke one of his hard and fast rules, to keep individual beefs with his people as private as possible. Despite the audience, he bellowed, "Jim, I've had enough for one day!"

"Sandburg and I are partners. We go together, or not at all."

"Detective, now is not the time ñ" 

"It is exactly the time, Captain. Past time. Be honest. Someone's been jerking us around ever since we closed that dock case. I'm done."

Without ceremony, Jim dragged Blair out of his chair and pushed him ahead. They were in the elevator before Jim acknowledged his partner's protests. "You with me here, Chief?" he challenged. "This is all one giant hairball; the separate assignments, your 'invisible man' designation, the stupid public posturing, the endless publicity nonsense. I've had enough. I can't take it anymore."

"Jim, your career, everything you've overcome ñ"

"Blair, listen to me. You have a career, too. I meant what I said to you privately. And if the city of Cascade can't or won't leave us in peace, I guarantee you some other entity will be happy to hire us. Okay?"

The two men held each other's gaze. The elevator opened. Blair nodded. "Okay." 

They were headed out the door when the sergeant working the desk waylaid them. "Banks says you win, and for both of you to get your asses up to Warren's office." They about-faced. The sergeant gave Jim a nudge and a wink. "Called their bluff, huh? Way to go. You guys hold your ground."

&&&&&

Megan Connor checked the address listed with the DMV. The tiny duplex was fronted by a patchy spot of lawn, more weed than grass. The paint was peeling, and faded, drooping curtains covered the windows. The place had a deserted air to it, but Megan marched towards the front stoop anyway.

When she climbed the first step, she heard the sharp tap of something hard on glass coming around the side of the building. She followed the sound. A young woman, dressed in light pink scrubs, was tapping on a window with a rock.

"Ron! Ron! Come on, I know you're in there! Open up!" She hadn't noticed Megan creeping quietly behind her. "Stupid SOB," she muttered. "Get me fired from my job!"

"And you would be?" Megan asked. The woman nearly jumped out of her skin. She looked very, very guilty. 

Megan noticed her nametag. How interesting. Trina Rice worked at Cascade General. Now what would Ron Stephens have done to get her fired? Megan, not one to miss an opportunity, adopted her most threatening Aussie accent. "Detective Inspector Megan Connor, New South Wales Police. Let's talk."

&&&&&

Chief Warren's office was spacious, but in this instance, crowded. Warren looked weary and aggravated as the three from Major Crime filed in. Mayor Killen was pacing, spouting angrily at his two aides who were frantically taking notes. He quickly singled out Blair, who was standing just behind Jim's shoulder. Kitsa and McGinn exchanged looks. It was part of their boss's operating procedure to vent towards the most junior person in the room.

"Detective Sandburg, you've done quite enough for one day," he shouted. "Pack your personal belongings. You're history working in this city."

Blair stiffened under the unwarranted verbal assault. "Excuse me, Mayor Killen, but I haven't done a damn thing except get out of bed and come to work."

"Watch your mouth. I'll deal with you later, so take a hike." Just as quickly, he flipped into his most congenial persona. "Detective Ellison, I don't want you to worry about this. I've spoken with the Assistant Secretary, and they're determined not to let this interfere with your new appointment." He seemed exasperated with the blank looks exchanged between Warren, Banks and the two detectives. Warren lowered his head with an aggrieved sigh. 

"Don't be stupid," Killen continued. "This whole run-up has gone without a hitch, and you wowed those Federal people right out of their socks, just like I predicted. Next week, Homeland Security will announce they've awarded their new office for the whole northwest, right here in Cascade. Not Olympia, not Spokane, not Portland. Cascade! And you'll be the agent-in-charge, Ellison, on loan from the PD. A coup for the city, and a great step up for you. It will make all this nonsense about Sandburg just disappear." He glared in Sandburg's direction, as if he were the source of all their problems. He clapped a slack-jawed Ellison on the shoulder. "Just let us handle the fallout from this ridiculous newspaper story. In fact, I think we have some talking points worked out for you, so you can take a few questions after Julie gives the press release."

Simon noted the shift Jim's in body language, but Jim's response was not quite what he expected. "And what do you get out of it?" Jim asked icily.

"I'm only interested in what's best for the city." Killen gave Jim his best politician's grin and straightened his tie. He proudly handed Jim a couple of note cards, undoubtedly the talking points. Then he added quietly, as if he were letting Jim in on his own little secret, "Ultimately, what's good for the city is good for me." 

"Is the press release ready?" Jim asked, taking a step or two forward. "May I see it?"

Banks had a moment of panic. Was Jim going along with this? After what had been said in his office? Just then he noticed Blair, studiously examining the toes of his shoes. He was massaging his own temple and jaw. It took a moment for Simon to realize he wasn't in distress, but trying desperately not to ñ laugh?

_Oh no._

It was like watching a giant wave swallow the sand castle, leaving smooth beach in its wake.

Jim crumpled the press release into a tiny ball and tossed it across the room into Warren's trash basket. The talking points? Two rips, and cardstock pieces fluttered gently to the floor. Jim was immediately right up in the Mayor's grille. "I don't like talking points. I don't like your press release because it's a pack of lies commenting about an even bigger pack of lies. Furthermore, I don't like the Feds, and I have no intention of working for them."

"Now you listen to me, Ellison," the Mayor said hotly. "You're an employee of this city, and you'll do as you're told."

"And you're going to what? Fire me? Thanks to your relentless PR, I'll bet I'd be pretty attractive on the job market. And I won't have any trouble finding a place where Sandburg and I can do our job without constant meddling from on high. How does that sound for a press conference?"

"Uh, Jim?" Every eye shifted in the direction of Blair, who shrugged in perfect innocence. "Maybe we should just go talk to that editor?" He couldn't quite keep the mischief out of his dancing blue eyes. "You know, the one you and your lawyer saw this morning?"

"You're right, Chief," Jim said, as if this were a marvelous, new idea. "He sure seemed interested in our side of the story. Apparently more than our own department," he added acidly. 

Jim stared pointedly at Killen. "If my city doesn't want to support me, I'll go to the people who will. I don't need your talking points to blow the doors off this whole scheme of yours to the media."

"You wouldn't dare," Killen said.

"Watch me," Jim said coldly. He folded his arms across his chest.

Good politician that he was, Killen realized the whole edifice, carefully installed over the months, was spinning out of his control. "Now just a minute," he said, a bit panicky. "Let's not be hasty. I can see your point of view. We can work this through." 

The door flew open. Megan Connor stormed into the room. Chief Warren, still seated at his desk, looked toward heaven and muttered something about retirement.

"Don't you knock?" Simon barked. Connor didn't look the least bit repentant, and certainly wasn't leaving. "Allow me to introduce our Australian exchange officer, Megan Connor, who must have some reason for being here," Simon said, finishing with a growl.

"I went to that weasel reporter's apartment." As usual, when she was upset her Australian accent was more pronounced. "His girlfriend was trying to peek in the windows, all weepy and whining. Not the brightest." She smiled with menacing delight. "And guess where she works? Cascade General. She gave Stephens the medical records. And she has a more than a few things to say about his methods and ethics." When no one moved, she gave them a disgusted look. "She's in interview four. I think one of you big blokes ought to go in and scare the living daylights out of her. Maybe cast some doubt in the right direction, if you know what I mean." She stared for a moment, and then gestured towards the Mayor's startled cadre. "Well?" she said impatiently.

The room erupted, everyone going a different direction. Connor sidestepped the stampede and intercepted Banks. "Oh, Captain," Megan said, at her sweetest.

"Inspector Connor?" Simon replied, already having a vague idea of what was coming next. Connor and sweet usually meant a generous serving of her trademark chaotic brilliance.

"You see, sir, I might have overstated the, uh ñ international nature of my inquiries. The young woman might be under the impression that interrogation under an Australian officer might involve, shall we say ñ"

"Dangling over crocodiles? Anthills in the outback?"

"It might have come up, sir. I think she may have seen Crocodile Dundee. No worries, I'm sure."

"Well, if you say so, Connor, obviously everything is under control," Simon replied sarcastically. He rolled his eyes and headed for the interrogation area, wondering how he actually commanded this exasperating, talented and unpredictable group of individuals.

 **Epilogue**

Four months later, two large engraved invitations arrived in the mail, requesting Detectives Sandburg and Ellison attend a private reception following the dedication of the Cascade Branch of Homeland Security. Jim, after sharing a conspiratorial smirk and kiss with Blair, filled out the response cards with a justified amount of glee. On the appointed day, they arrived with smiles and a deep sense of vindication.

"Detective Ellison. Good to see you again." Bruce Weatherly greeted Jim with a smile and an enthusiastic handshake. He gestured toward the building behind them. "We're off to a good start, and in record time. You're sure we can't tempt you? We need the best in the Cascade Branch of Homeland Security. Your country calls, Ellison." 

"It's an interesting offer, but I've already answered my country's call more than once." Jim glanced over at Blair, who seemed to be enjoying the reception. "I've been all over the world, but this is home, for me. Major Crime is a great place to work. We do good work here, and we're happy to stay right where we are."

"Well, we're disappointed, but I can understand," Weatherly said. He relaxed in the summer evening sun. "It really is a lovely city. The Assistant Secretary asked I convey our apologies about the entire situation. Killen assured us from the beginning that you were onboard, but for internal reasons not to approach you until after the actual visit." Weatherly shook his head. "Delusions of grandeur, that one, and you were going to be his ticket."

"His Honor made an end run. Not even our Chief of Police really knew what he had in mind, much less me or my captain." Jim took a sip of his wine. Pretty good, actually. He'd have to get a bottle for Sandburg. "I noticed Mayor Killen didn't join us today." 

They shared a chuckle. "He had the sense to defer to the governor. I'm curious, though. How can you be sure he's not going to mess with you again?"

"Politicians hate bad press. The Times editor, Strebkin, owes me a few favors. By the time they got to the bottom of everything ñ well, let's just say the reporter left them pretty exposed, even though they sent him packing. They printed a front page retraction the next day. He's my new best friend."

"So no fallout?" Weatherly expression became very serious. "Some of those allegations could have been pretty ugly," he said quietly.

"Never underestimate the power of the press. They decided the best approach was to detail Stephens' many transgressions. They made him the story. The juicy scoop he anticipated when he hacked into the system became toxic. The whole thing backfired on him. From our end, the whole thing basically disappeared."

"My boss actually laughed out loud when your romantic liaison turned out to be undercover work that solved a case. Never think those of us on the Federal side don't have a sense of humor."

"We were kind of happy about that, ourselves," Jim said, sipping his wine. _You have no idea how happy._

Weatherly checked to see that they had some privacy. "My boss asked me to deliver a message on his behalf," he said quietly. "The Undersecretary is not a subscriber to 'don't ask, don't tell'. He very much believes that the willingness to serve your country trumps all other considerations. If the atmosphere in the city of Cascade ever turns sour, there's a place waiting for both you and your partner."

"I see," Jim said neutrally. He was surprised at Weatherly's frankness.

"You'll be getting that in writing, by the way, with all the politically correct phrasing. I just want to be certain we understood each other," he said, watching Jim's reaction. "For your sake, I hope your confidence in a helpful print media is well-placed."

Jim nodded. "Besides the original retraction, their city editor is doing a feature on Major Crime and how many cases we're solving by taking advantage of each other's strengths. Sandburg calls it synergism. There's a lot of great material. Anyway, my partner and my other colleagues are finally getting credit for what they do. I think it puts us in a good long-term position."

Weatherly chuckled. "Certainly turns the so-called scandal on its head. I take it you're not on the Mayor's Christmas card list."

"Hardly." Jim popped a shrimp into his mouth, actually enjoying the conversation.

"By the way, we're actually swiping a page from you guys. This idea of using dedicated cell phones and bilingual contacts to serve the immigrant community and avoid language problems is a keeper. The secretary wants to run with it all across the country as part of our show. Make it easier for people to come forward with information."

"Thank the guy with the anthropology degree," Jim said. "Sandburg came up with that one. He even got the local universities to set up a network of multilingual students to help, kind of like a hotline. The students get a credit, and we get the help we need without breaking the bank." Jim gestured towards Blair, who had just joined them. "I keep telling everyone he's the brains." Blair smiled with a shrug.

"Detective Sandburg, it's good to see you." Weatherley offered his hand and greeted Blair warmly. "As I was telling your partner, I'm glad things worked out. Jim assures me the whole thing has blown over. Still, the Mayor does approve your paycheck. That really doesn't worry you?"

Blair grinned. "Oh, but that's the best part. His Honor the Mayor is in for some stiff competition in the upcoming election." Both he and Jim started laughing.

"Okay, you two," Weatherly said with mock sternness. "I won't be here, so let me in on the fun."

Jim gestured towards Blair, who volunteered the explanation. "Jim's dad was a little bit upset. You know how parents are. You have to understand, Jim's dad was big-time in business here in Cascade, and he's very well connected. He's also a little bored with retirement."

"Oh, God," Weatherly said with a knowing smile. 

"Yeah," Blair said. "He's decided to become active in politics. Actually, that's a bit of an understatement." 

"Let me guess. For the loyal opposition?"

"Oh, yeah," said Jim. "Early in his career, my dad was a pretty fair marketer, and he's a great organizer. First thing he did was arrange all kinds of expertise for the challenger's media spots. Let's just say he hasn't forgotten how to go for the jugular."

Weatherly grinned. "The moral of the story obviously being to never piss off a parent." 

"No fooling," Jim said gleefully. "You have to picture it. You know how it is when you discover a whole new side of your parent that you never knew existed?" Weatherly nodded, gleefully. "Unbeknownst to me, my dad has a wicked sense of humor. Some of them ..." Jim started to laugh uncontrollable.

"Not your standard political fare. We saw the whole media campaign. Jim spewed a soft drink out his nose," Blair volunteered helpfully. "One series of TV spots features a talking chipmunk."

The End 


End file.
